In The Wind
by S-Jay494
Summary: AU. On Halloween Night 1983, John and Mary Winchester's sons were taken. Ten years later, a young boy with familiar eyes catches John's attention and raises the unthinkable question: Could their sons still be alive?
1. Chapter 1

**oOoOoOo**

_Halloween 1983_

_Lawrence, KS_

Mary Winchester looked up from the sink where she was rinsing the last of the dinner dishes. She heard the muffled coughing again. Sighing, she reached into the cabinet beside her and took out the bottle of children's cold medicine. She hated giving him this. He would fall asleep and not cough, but he also would not want to wake up in the morning. When her son didn't want to wake up, it was always a hard day. For a small, sweet boy, Dean Winchester could be an unbelievably grouchy bear at times—just like his father.

Hearing the hacking again, she grabbed a spoon and headed into the living room. Upon entering, she spotted her baby, little Sammy, sitting in the middle of the floor with a blanket tied around his neck and a winter hat crammed onto his head half-covering his eyes. The baby seemed puzzled by it but did not fuss. Mary cocked her head to the side, wondering about it as this was not how she left Sammy two minutes earlier. She noted quickly that her husband was no longer on the couch watching the evening news.

"What are you wearing, Sammy?" she asked as she approached the baby.

He offered her a toothless grin and clapped his hands.

"No, he's not Sammy," the culprit of this dress-up game said running from behind the couch.

He, too, was wearing a cape—this one real—and a mask of the Caped Crusader himself.

"He's not?" Mary inquired.

"He's Robin," Dean insisted to his mother as he paused to cough again. "Mommy, you're in the batcave. Girls can't come in the batcave."

"What about Batgirl?" she asked, knowing the longer she kept him talking the better chance she would have of him standing still to take his medicine rather than running to hide behind the chair or under the dining room table.

"There's no such thing," Dean replied, the wet, hacking cough punctuating his word again. "Batman and Robin only. We don't need a girl."

"Well, Batman needs to take this so he can go fight crime without scaring the Joker with his cold," Mary said, pouring a spoonful of the purple liquid onto the spoon. "Sweetie, I'll make you a deal. You take this, swallow all of it without spitting it out, and I'll let you have some more of your Halloween candy."

"How much more?" the little boy asked from behind the mask.

Mary pulled off that part of his costume and held the spoon out. She learned long ago never to negotiate with Dean when he was either tired or not feeling well (and certainly never when he was both of those things). Her oldest son was unspeakably sweet when he wasn't being maddeningly stubborn (just like his father). The child was also convinced he knew best about most everything. The pediatrician told her it was the age and that he would grow out of that eventually—she was counting the days until it happened. Meanwhile, she knew that if he started pressing her for details regarding the candy, it would lead to disagreements and finally a tantrum. She was in no mood for a toddler tantrum.

"Well," she said, stuffing the spoon in his mouth, "you'll have to ask Daddy about that because he took your candy."

Dean made a sour face as he struggled to swallow the medicine. His eyes watered with the effort, but he accomplished it with great strain. He then stuck out his tongue as his body shook with the reviling of the liquid.

"He's just protecting it, right?" Dean asked, pleading with his wide, vivid green eyes.

"Is that what he told you?" she wondered then shouted over her shoulder before scooping up the baby. "John, you don't need to _protect_ the candy anymore."

A moment later, feet sounded on the stairs and her husband appeared holding a plastic pumpkin filled with wrapped candies. Dean bounced over to him and reached for the pumpkin, but it was held aloft and carried to the coffee table as John sat on the couch.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," Mary remarked half sternly, half grinning at her husband.

"What?" John replied, his mouth full of chocolate. "I was examining it to be safe. Besides, he doesn't even like the coconut ones. He says they taste like eating hair."

"He's never eaten coconut," Mary said. "And he told me the same thing about eating green beans."

"Those taste like worms," Dean said, throwing himself over his father's legs as he coughed again. "Daddy, Mommy said I can have all my candy."

"I said you can have some of your candy," she corrected, as she pet his dirty blond hair. "John, I don't think we should go to Denise and Bob's tonight. Listen to Dean's cough."

The boy tuned out the discussion and made a grab for his haul. John caught his small hand in progress then pulled him onto the couch, offering him a mini Kit Kat bar. He then explained to his wife that the babysitter was on her way—not a long way of course, as it was just their adjacent neighbor Phyllis—but she was already prepared to watch the boys for a few hours. They were going to the neighbor's home across the street for a Halloween party. Mary had not spent a moment away from the boys in six months—since Sammy was born. She needed a couple hours as an adult without a child attached to her hip, her breast or her leg, he insisted.

Reluctantly, Mary agreed. Being a mother wasn't a chore, and she did not mind the constant nurse, maid, jungle gym that she had become to satisfy the needs of her two young boys. Sammy was a sweet, healthy and gentle baby. Dean was… busy, always moving and into something, but he generally listened and was showing interest in playing more with his brother now that Sammy could sit up and was starting to crawl. The thought of two mobile and active boys did give her a moment's pause. Sleep was not going to be in the cards for her anytime soon. So, she told herself, an hour of adult conversation might be a nice change.

They put the boys to bed. Sammy wasn't yet sleeping, but he would stare at his mobile until the song wound down then he would drift off. The harder one to put down was always Dean, but not this night. The medicine had kicked in to the point that John had to carry him to his bed. The child never even heard his parents say goodnight.

Sometime later, the boy awoke suddenly with his heart banging hard against his small ribs. A dark figure stood over his bed. Dean rubbed his eyes as the sounds of his little brother's squirming and grunting reached his ears. Dean was about to ask his father what was going on when something in his head told him this man wasn't his Daddy. He wasn't as tall as his Daddy. Dean threw himself out of his bed and tired to crawl under it, but somehow the man moved to that side of the bed in a flash and grabbed his ankle. Dean was yanked from under it, his knees and elbows burning against the carpet. He tried to scream, but found no sound would come.

The man picked him up roughly.

"Trust me, kid," he said in a harsh whisper, "it gets worse if I don't do this."

Dean made a grab for his brother and tried to bite the man in the process, but he was suddenly overwhelmed by a loud noise that made him want to cover his ears and close his eyes.

John and Mary arrived home just before 10 p.m. Phyllis was on the couch, knitting quietly. She said the boys hadn't made a peep. She refused the money John offered her, saying a reprieve from her husband's snoring in his recliner was payment enough then bid them goodnight. Mary went directly upstairs to check on Dean. She was surprised he was not in his bed, but figured he had still felt unwell and probably went into his parents' bedroom. She was certain she would find him curled up on her side of the bed waiting for her. She was mildly impressed he hadn't started crying when he found their room empty.

She went next into the nursery to check on Sammy as downstairs John turned out the lights and locked the doors. He was turning the bolt on the front door when his wife's scream pierced the quiet night.

**oOoOoOo**

_June 1993_

_Chicago, IL_

John Winchester woke to the oppressive city humid hanging heavily on the air. He sat up from the creaking and lumpy bed in the flea bag motel not far from the El-train to look out the grimy window. The view was simply that of an alley and, if the sounds from the night before were accurate, a crime scene. Whether it was a drug deal gone bad or a mugging off the beaten path, John did not know. Nor did he care. His idea of safety and justice got twisted into a pretzel long ago.

He looked at the clock. It read 6 a.m. He scrubbed a hand over his stubbly face and sighed. Another day. Another crap assignment.

Not that he wanted anything exciting. He preferred the boring stuff. Yeah, they were menial tasks, but at least these paid. The others, the exciting action hero stuff that he left to the real 'pros,' were all pro bono work (for obvious reasons) and left you broke and broken, he knew. He only took these jobs from Bobby Singer when he was in serious need of work.

John had been working construction and picking up odd jobs fixing cars where and when he could. He couldn't live off the radar the way his wife and her cohorts did. It might have been easier to just get good enough at pool or cards to swindle people for cash like they did so he could get by, but John needed to work. He needed to feel useful. He also needed to keep his identity and maintain some connection to society. After all, what if there was a break in the case? How would the authorities find him to tell him?

Mary didn't hold out hope of the police ever finding anything useful to locate the missing Winchester boys. Nearly a decade had passed without a single tangible lead on the whereabouts of their children. She had her ideas of how and why they disappeared. John knew her theories. He wanted so badly to think she had simply lost her mind when their sons were abducted, except he had seen too much since that happened. He couldn't ignore the terrible things he saw living in the shadows.

His wife knew all about them—had her whole life—and didn't clue him into any of it until it was too late. Or, so she thought. John simply didn't know what happened to Dean and Sam. Mary was convinced a demon took them. She broke down one week after they disappeared and revealed all sorts of bone-shivering details about her early life to John. If she was right, something evil took their children. What it did with them was unknown and probably unthinkable. When his wife said he could go with her and look for the children her way, or he could stay behind and waste time. John… well, he let her go. He didn't want to believe anything she said.

Nearly a year later, after searching for her and finally finding her (he always suspected he was able to do that only because she let him), she truly opened his eyes. He spent several months with her, staying in rundown shacks and filthy motels, digging up graves (graves!) and burning the bones of people long dead who were still wreaking havoc in the land of the living. After that, he could no longer deny all the fantastic tales of monsters and ghosts she told him.

And for as much as those appalled him, what shocked him more was his wife's demeanor. He was certain, when she would reluctantly discuss Dean and Sammy, that she believed they were dead. Her heart didn't want it to be true, but everything she knew about life told her they must be. She had used all her skills and tapped into the occult knowledge of her fellow hunters and come up with nothing. She told John in a heartbroken tone this could only mean the boys were dead, victims of a vicious creature who snuffed out their young, innocent lives for a reason the parents would probably never learn.

John wouldn't believe that. He couldn't. The only thing that kept him from having a bullet for breakfast each day was the belief that his boys, well one of them at least, was still out there. John's father disappeared when he was a child. He resented the man for walking out and had never tried to find Henry Winchester once he was old enough to look on his own. John was ashamed of himself for being so obstinate about that. It felt like giving up.

If there was one thing John Winchester wasn't it was a quitter. So until the bones of his sons were found, all he knew for certain was that they were missing.

His morning routine of pumping himself up to face another day complete, John was preparing to go into the disgusting washroom to shave when the phone rang. The loud trill of it screamed in the room.

"Yeah, Winchester," John answered, his voices still thick with sleep.

"You get my crystals yet?" Bobby Singer replied abruptly.

Bobby was a thorn for John. He was helpful when John needed work, finding odd tasks like this that John could handle with ease and that paid. He was usually willing to follow up on any leads John might find on the boys—the real world leads that is. Bobby had contacts across the country who seemed to have access to any and all public and private records if they were given enough of an incentive to take a peek. The gruff bastard also sent John to help a few other hunters on a cases that involved werewolves and other types of monsters. John did not like killing, not during Vietnam and not even when it came to animals like deer or ducks, but he could do it. He didn't scare easily, was solid in a fight and knew how to handle a weapon. The ghosts, those were the cases he avoided. Not because he was afraid—after all, the greatest fear of his life had occurred when he lost his family. No, he shied away from the ghost hunts because he didn't like setting the bones on fire. A pit formed in his stomach just thinking about one of these callous road warriors doing that to his sons some day.

"Today," John said with agitation into the phone. "Your contact keeps changing the time and the place to meet him. He's twitchy."

"Well, you would be too if a mambo put a curse on you," Bobby grumbled. "Since you're still in Chicago, I have another job for you—this one pays, and it's legal. You still got that ID I gave you?"

John grunted. He did. He didn't like it, but he carried it as ordered.

"Good, you might need it," Bobby continued. "It's an above board job, everyday human crap, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared. I got a friend whose wife ran off with another fellah. He don't want the wife back. He just wants everything she took from him back. He heard through the grapevine she's working as a lunch lady at a private Catholic school in Chicago. It's over near West 18th and South May Street. Just get your camera and go there. Take pictures of any adult woman you see leaving the school. Bring the film to that place you used last year for me, over on Fullerton. Tell Jenkins it's for me. He'll process the film the same day. Bring the prints with you when you head back this way."

"So now I'm a private dick," John groused.

"Hey, in my book, you're just a dick, Winchester," Bobby said. "My friend will pay you $100 for doing next to nothing. You want to back out, fine by me."

John sighed. One hundred dollars was a fortune to him just then. He was living on his last few bucks. Thankfully, the rusting little Toyota Bobby let him rebuild at his salvage yard got good mileage. John rubbed his hand over his neck and massaged a knot that formed there. He then agreed to the job before hanging up.

It was an easy task. He loaded the camera with a canister of 36 and just pulled into the parking lot at the school. Kids would pour out of the front when the day was done, but the adults would leave through the side and back doors leading to the parking areas. John did as he was instructed and shot a full role of film. He then went to Jenkins' place and dropped off the film. He promised to have it by the next morning. Next, John waited until dark as directed and went to his other task, picking up a box of crystals for Bobby from a paranoid and twitchy man. The hand off went smoothly. He stowed it in the trunk of the Toyota and his day complete.

All in all, it was an extremely boring and pointless existence for him, particularly when his mind betrayed him and reminded him what he ought to have been doing, acting as a father and a husband to his family. This Chicago run was made harder, of course, because John had to go to that school. When he was there, he couldn't help but look over his shoulder at the buses in the front . A wave of little people had flooded into them as the last days of school drew near. The kids were joyous as they departed, yelling and screaming at being outside finally.

His boys should be doing that, he sighed painfully back at his hotel as the night fell heavily on the busy city. He should have been waiting outside their school to pick them up and telling them to pipe down because they were too loud and rambunctious. But he had no one that needed him, no one he was responsible for that was acting up. His heart ached with his uselessness.

The next day rolled around, the same as the one prior. John woke up, found a reason to continue the process and got out of bed. He wandered to Jenkins' place on foot, looking for something to fill his hours. He was tired from having not slept well. His mind had raced far that night, not surprisingly. It took off and brought him back to the house in the Kansas suburbs with the tree in the front yard. The living room was scattered with blocks and matchbox cars. Two little faces smiled and shrieked with joy when he walked through the door then vanished before he could put his arms around either of them. John woke up with moist eyes and a heavy heart. The 18-block walk didn't help him any, but it kept him moving.

His plan, he decided, was to pick up the pictures and then hit the ABC store he passed along the way. The motel had one more night paid for already. He hadn't numbed himself from the pains in his heart in a while and after the unrelenting dreams the night before, he felt it was time.

So, he arrived back in his room with a bottle of cheap Tequila (it got the job done quickly) and the damn photos Bobby sent him to take. The son of a bitch knew John's story and still sent him to a fucking school. Bobby was the one always telling John all of his leads would come to nothing. That the grizzly bastard was always right never helped matters. John tore open the picture envelope—making sure Jenkins gave him the right package (something he knew he should have done the moment he was handed it in the store).

Instantly, he swore.

"Shit!" he said, looking at the up close picture of a child.

All John's shots were taken from a distance. He hadn't taken any photos up close and he certainly didn't take any pictures of kids. Pissed Jenkins gave him the wrong pictures, he thumbed quickly through the rest of the stack and saw the shots he expected to see. Puzzled, John turned his eyes again to the top photo of the young boy.

John brought it to the window to see it in the full light of day and promptly dropped all the other pictures. His stomach flipped and his blood began to pump very loudly in his ears as he stared at the small face looking directly into the camera.

It was Sammy.

**oOoOoOo**

* * *

**A/N: **More to come. Review if you're into that kind of thing. Thanks.


	2. Chapter 2

**oOoOoOo**

Forgetting his plans for a Tequila sunrise and sunset, John clenched the photo in his fingers then pulled out his wallet. He drew out the creased and worn image provided to him a year earlier by the Kansas Bureau of Investigation—the detectives assigned to his family's abduction case. The image was new technology. They were able to take a photo of a young child and approximate what he might look like years later. The detectives said the technology was proving helpful in finding children who had been missing for years. John put the picture of the child next to the age-enhanced rendition of baby Sammy generated by the KBI computers. The similarities were startling. It was not exact by any means, but there was no denying a resemblance.

How the photo got onto John's camera was a question he would deal with at another time. He flipped through the rest of the stack to be certain there were not more. Finding none, he slipped the photo in his shirt pocket and replaced the generated image back into his wallet. He noted the one of Dean was folded in there as well, but he did not take it out. It was still relatively pristine as John rarely took that one out. He felt guilty about that, but looking at approximations of his oldest son's face now simply hurt. There was a chance Sammy was alive (and this recent photo seemed to prove that); there was essentially no hope for Dean. There hadn't been any since basically the night the boys vanished.

Rather than dwell on that darkness, John grabbed his keys and took off for the school. He knew not to start throwing around accusations and lodging claims of kidnapping. He simply went to the main office at the school and spoke to a severe nun, Sister Constance, seated behind a desk. He showed her a fake badge announcing he was a detective with the state police (something she looked at skeptically considering his wardrobe) and said he was looking for a boy, approximately 10 years old, who went to school there. He showed her the photo.

"I think you have the wrong school," Sister Constance said coldly. "I know all of our students. That boy doesn't go here. What is his name?"

"Sammy, uh, Samuel," John said. "This picture was taken just outside this school yesterday, Sister. Look, it is very important that I find this boy."

"Well, I wish you luck in your search, but you will not find him here," she said. "There are a few other schools in the area. Perhaps whoever took that picture was in the wrong location. As you can see, that boy is wearing a jean jacket and a T-shirt. Out students have uniforms. No uniform, no school for the day. That boy is not one of ours."

John looked out in the hallway to see students passing. They wore gray blazers and matching trousers; they all had on ties. He looked back at the picture and sighed. He hung his head and departed. His world was crashing down again. How did the picture show up on his role if he hadn't taken it here? What if someone else shot the picture but Jenkins slipped it into John's envelope? Why would he do that? Jenkins didn't know about Sammy. Or had John finally lost his mind?

"Detective?" another nun called just as he reached the doors.

John looked at her oddly. He had not seen her, or anyone other than children, in the hall. How she knew he was a detective was a question, but the warm and happy, almost seductive, look on her face (so completely unexpected on a nun) made him pause.

"I'm Sister Gabriela," she said. Her eyes twinkled like someone a quarter of her age. "There's a store, over on South Loomis near 17th. A lot of children stop in there on their way home to buy candy. The owner watches out for them. If that boy lives in the area, he might know him."

John nodded and thanked her, not sure it was worth checking. This picture might be from someone's vacation photos, taken weeks ago that got stuck in Jenkins' machine. John ducked his head dejectedly as he started toward the door again. He stared again at the picture and tried to tell himself he was just imagining the resemblance. The eyes were hazel and the face was narrow. The lips had that miffed pout look about them. All things Sammy had, but he was barely six months old when he disappeared. How would John know his face now? The computer generated ones were just theories.

"Go there," Sister Gabriela insisted. "Please. They may be able to help you."

John was prepared to go back to his hotel and resume Tequila Day, even more so now than before, but a little annoying voice at the back of his head said to go to that store and just ask the damn question. That dogged determined streak in John just wouldn't leave him in peace to drink himself into oblivion.

**oOoOoOo**

The store was narrow and packed with items. No shelf had a spare space on it. The store contained everything from milk to jumper cables. The candy section was exceptionally well-stocked, lending weight to the Sister's intel that it was a popular hangout for kids. John wandered the aisles and located a 20-something man stocking a shelf. John held out the picture without any hope and asked if the man had seen the child.

"I'm looking for this kid," John said, offering up the photo of the little boy with the hazel eyes and drawn expression. "I think he lives around here."

"Oh, yeah," the guy nodded. "That's Oliver."

"Oliver?" John asked, his heart sinking with the information. Oliver was definitely not the name he was hoping to hear. Then again, he reminded himself, his IDs currently said his name was John Stamos, something he didn't quite get but his wife found hilarious.

Names don't mean anything, he told himself, but his mind raced to figure out if he knew any child with the first or last name of Oliver and if that might be why he reacted to seeing the child's picture. John knew who he wanted the boy to be, but he'd been down this road so many times. He knew he should give up. All logic said he must, but his heart (and that damn stubborn streak people hated so much in him—the one that made him a rotten husband and a damn good Marine) wouldn't quit. Didn't know how to, in fact.

"Well, that's what we call him around here," the stock clerk replied with a shrug. "Like from the Dickens book, Oliver Twist. I was a drama major at college—thus this illustrious career I have now overseeing my Dad's grocery store. Oh, I'm Chris, by the way."

John nodded at the introduction as he coaxed the knot of nerves and anticipation in his chest to loosen a bit.

"Right," John said. "So about the kid… You don't know his real name?"

"No, sorry," he shook his head. "My dad's the one who gets to know them, or he did until he had his stroke at Easter. He tags them all with nicknames. Too hard to know all their names. I mean, a lot of kids breeze in here. They pay cash and they go. So, to me, he's just Oliver—'cause he looks like a little orphan boy with his puppy dog eyes and that innocent face. He comes in once in a while. He gets off the bus on the corner and comes in here before he gets his ride home. Don't ask me where that is. He's usually just wasting his time until his buddy shows up. He stares at the candy rack and then reads the headlines in the papers."

"Never buys anything?" John wondered.

"I don't think he's got much money," Chris said sadly. "Again, that whole Oliver thing seems appropriate—makes me feel for him, you know? Lots of kids come in here with money. Not sure how or where they get it, illegally most likely around here, but not that kid. Makes me trust him so I don't pay him much attention. His partner, the Dodger, though, him I watch like a hawk. Hey, that's kind of funny, isn't it?"

"What is?" John wondered.

"Jack Hawkins," Chris said eagerly. "I said watch the Dodger like a hawk. Get it? That's why I call the kid the Artful Dodger—from Oliver Twist." John nodded, not really following the discussion but let that go. "Jack Hawkins is the real name of the character called the Artful Dodger. Our Dodger is a smooth and cheeky criminal, and I guess it's fitting that I call his buddy Oliver because he is Dodger's poor, innocent little friend that he protects—like in the book. It was my old man who first spotted the Dodger—the old man liked the play and said this older boy reminded him of that character. Dad likes him, actually. Never caught him stealing or anything. I'm sure he does it, but he's good at it and not too greedy. Street kids, you know? What are you going to do?"

"Oliver's a street kid?" John wondered. His heart ached with the question.

"Basically," he shrugged. "I think he might live in the group home run by the Jesuits over in Greektown."

John nodded, knowing the general area. It was several blocks west of the grocery store, not far from a university library. He'd seen the group home as he passed through the area, a small, rundown building looking more like a reformatory than a home run by the priests at St. Procopius Church.

"There's like a dozen kids there," Chris continued. "Some are hardcore cases—kids no one wanted so the system sort of spit out them for one reason or another. Criminal records, drugs, emotional problems, stuff like that."

"Which is Oliver?" John asked, his heard sinking. If it was his boy, he was friends with a criminal and that did not bode well for his character.

"No idea," he shook his head. "He's never given me trouble. Might just be some kid whose parents are screwed up and can't take care of him but who won't let him go."

John's heart shuddered at that. His boys were missing, and he had looked for years but never found a real trace. In the intervening years, he had found a way to accept that Dean was gone. It only made sense. When Dean disappeared, he knew his name. He knew his parents' names; he even knew his home phone number. If he were alive, he'd have been able to tell someone all that.

Sammy was the wild card and that's why John still had hope for his survival. He was an infant and all the experts said he was the real reason John and Mary's boys disappeared. They figured someone wanted a baby; how Dean got snatched in the mix was unknown. It smashed John's heart to smithereens when he realized what it meant: His firstborn saw the kidnappers and was killed for it. (Which was a better tale than his wife's assumption that something evil took and killed both of them).

John couldn't accept that. He need some hope. He made his peace somewhat with losing Dean, but he wouldn't let them declare Dean dead until they had his body. That meant, in a very technically sense, he was still just missing. But John could tell by the look in the detectives' eyes that they held no hope of finding Dean. What kept John going was the thought that Sammy might still be out there. He likely had no idea he was taken from his family as he was too young to remember when he was taken.

John kept the few pictures he had of the two of them; well, the blurry copies he got to keep. Mary had the originals. Still, this boy, Oliver, could be Sammy. John knew it was a tremendous long shot, and none of those had ever paid off before, but the grieving father in him couldn't give up all hope. This kid, in all likelihood, was not his son, but John had to be certain.

"Dodger and Oliver don't go to the same school," Chris the fountain of information continued. "The older boy wears the red lanyard and badge of the school over on 116th Street. Oliver's is green, which is what they wear over at the school on St. Albany Street. The schools here are crowded so the orphan kids get placed wherever there is space even though they might all live in the same building."

"Well, when do you normally see Oliver?" John asked, trying to keep his composure.

It was irrational, yes, but he could feel it in his bones. Of the hundreds of kids photos he had seen, over the years, the dozens of false leads, this one felt different. The kid looked amazingly like the age progression photos. Mary always told John about the evil in the world. He wondered if there was balance, a force of good to combat the nastiness. Mary always said no, but John knew she was wrong. There were hunters. They were not smooth or polished or refined, but they were warriors for the good. John didn't like most of them, but he did not deny they were righteous soldiers. They did this job without being asked or paid. They helped people. They saved families. He had no reason to believe there was any supernatural force for the good, but he realized that the mere existence of hunters told him it was possible.

So what if something like that slipped this photo into John's hands?

Not that how the photo got to him mattered. He had it. He had a lead. The kid who might look like Sammy was probably an orphan. That simply meant he had no parents present. It could be that whoever took him just left him eventually. Now, if John could just find him, he could ask the kid these questions himself.

"He doesn't come in every day," Chris replied. "A few times a week. Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays mostly. Must have something to do with the bus schedule or after school programs. Why?"

That was a tricky one. A grown man asking about a little kid could be dicey. John reached, reluctantly, into his pocket and pulled out the Private Investigator card he carried for these instances. He never liked the deception, but he had learned the hard way that it was necessary.

"I'm working a divorce case," he said, offering up the most believable lie. "My client thinks his wife is stepping out on him. While I was tailing her over the weekend, I lost sight of her when she met up with the guy we think is her new squeeze. This kid was in the same pizza joint, and I think he got a good look at the guy. I just want to see if he can ID the guy—I've got three possibles and I don't want to spend my time tracking all of them if Oliver here can point me in the right direction. Save me a crap load of time on a pointless stakeout of some guy's house if he's not involved, you know?"

Chris nodded accepting the answer. Cheating spouses was normal and safe. Kids as stool pigeons was believable as well. John cringed at what that said about this neighborhood, but let it pass. He would reserve judgment on it after he learned who this kid was.

"He usually shows up around 3:30 or so," Chris offered. "You're out of luck today; it's Wednesday. You could try tomorrow."

John nodded taking in the information, trying not to let the fear and excitement show on his face. It was unlikely, unbelievable and most certainly unreal. His hopes were about to be dashed. There was no way, after years of looking, that he would stumble upon one of his sons out of the blue when he was not actively searching for him. The odds against that happening were higher than being struck by lightning while winning the lottery.

But the young boy's face was so familiar. He certainly did not look like the baby who disappeared from the crib in John's home a decade earlier, but those eyes were unmistakable and the resemblance to the KBI generated photo was haunting. Not wanting to waste anymore time, John went to the group home in Greektown. Unfortunately, no one appeared to be there. He thought he could see small faces peaking behind dusty blinds, but no one answered when he knocked repeatedly. Sighing as he descended the steps, he realized he needed to make a call.

**oOoOoOo**

The man accepted the charges for the phone call with a violent streak of cursing that John had grown accustomed to from the man. For Bobby, a few f-words tossed in John's direction was practically a flowery greeting.

"Bobby," John said, his voice hesitant and cautious. "I need some help."

"You get arrested?" the gruff man asked.

"No, nothing like that," John said. "I need to find some information. I think this kid I saw is…."

"Winchester," the older man groaned. "It ain't him."

"You don't know who I mean," John protested.

"You think you saw your little boy," Bobby cut him off. "I can hear it in your voice, John. Look, this kid, whoever he is, ain't your little Sammy. I know you want him to be, but it ain't. It never is. Now, leave this poor boy alone, or you will get yourself arrested. Did you get my black scrying crystals yet? And if you did, why aren't you back here giving them to me? I paid you upfront this time."

John swore, none too softly, and let his patience evaporate.

"I run your fucking little errands and I help your band of psychopaths do what they do—hell, I've done a few jobs myself," John shouted. "All I ask in return is to be paid for the work I actually do and for someone to please help me find my…"

"Okay," Bobby cut him off before he got a full head of steam. "What's the deal with this one?"

John explained about the photo snafu and the nun who said it was impossible the photo was taken at her school. He continued with what he had learned so far that day.

"I think he's about Sammy's age," John replied. "He looks a lot like the age progression photos they did of him. He lives in a group home, like an orphanage, run by some priests here. I know this is thin."

"Thin?" Bobby repeated. "It's anorexic, that's what it is. He got a name?"

"The guy at the grocery store calls him Oliver, like in the book Oliver Twist, but that's just a nickname," John replied and could hear the sigh on the other end and just knew the expression. Even he was having his doubts now that he was saying all this out loud. "The guy doesn't know the kid's real name. He said Oliver showed up a couple years ago and hangs out with a local criminal in training apparently. He goes to a public school somewhere near here. I know it's not much."

"It's not anything," Bobby replied, but his tone wasn't as angry as earlier. "John, I know you want to find Samuel, but this ain't him."

"Then I'll just need a little more proof so I'm sure, and then I'll be on my way back to South Dakota," he replied. "Do you have a contact here who can get me information on the kids who stay at Our Lady of Angels group home?"

Bobby grumbled then said he would make a few calls, but regardless of whether he got a call back from his contact, John was to be on the road the next morning and to absolutely not contact this child in anyway. John agreed, but as he hung up, he was formulating his own plan.

It was a simple plan. He was just going to wait for the child to arrive at the store. He would ask him a few innocent questions and then go, just so he could be sure. Bobby was probably right. It wasn't Sammy. It never was Sammy. Every lead always dried up. Every possibility faded as quickly as it appeared. Bobby just didn't understand that giving up wasn't in John's vocabulary, not where his family was concerned.

Correction: Where is son was concerned.

Mary, his wife, was another story. John wanted her back, but he wanted her back for who she had been when he married her, who she had been when the boys were born, who she had been when they were a family. The woman she was now, the secretive wayward hunter, killing things just to dull the ache from the loss of her children wasn't his wife. If the woman he knew and loved was still alive inside that cold and calculating exterior, he did not know. He had stopped asking. Stopped wondering.

What he hadn't done was stop looking. Not completely.

As the years since the disappearance dragged on, there were fewer and fewer leads. Even the nonsensical leads like a random kid in a grocery store a thousand miles from where the children were taken were happening less and less. In fact, this was the first time he'd encountered a possibility in many months. The last one was the previous year, not long after the anniversary.

Most people thought of Halloween and kids as a happy time for parties and celebrations. For John Winchester, it was a time of sorrow and agony. Each holiday marked another year without his family.

Holidays had no meaning for him any longer. Father's Day was just a day to be a walking wound as he was a father without children now. Christmas was a snowy, dark, miserable day to miss his children (which made it pretty much the same as any other day in the winter). Easter was the same thing only with flowers starting to sprout from the ground. The boys' birthdays were a waltz through Hell that never seemed to end. This year, however, there had been a first. It was the first time he went the entire day of January 24th without thinking about his first-born. It's not that John forgot it would have been the Dean's 14th birthday; it was that John didn't realize the day was even the 24th until he looked at a calendar to see the 25th had arrived—and he felt horrible about it.

He hated himself for accepting the loss, but Dean was certainly dead. According to lead investigators during the first year following the disappearance, Dean probably did not survive even the week following his abduction. John never wanted to believe that. If the kidnappers were just going to take his boy to kill him, why take him at all? If they just wanted to snatch a baby, why bring the four-year-old with them? The answer, he learned, was that the older boy was likely a witness and deemed too dangerous to leave in the house to sound an alarm or speak to police later to report what he saw.

It was that which convinced investigators (both the local, state and Federal kind as well as the grizzly, off-the-radar, occult-specialized hunter kind) that Dean was dead. Four-year-olds could talk. They could observe, and they could repeat what they heard and saw. They were chatterboxes, and no competent kidnapper would leave one of those behind to rat them out; the same apparently went for supernatural foes who didn't want to leave a trail.

As no body was ever found, Dean was considered merely missing, just like his baby brother, but investigators and hunters alike told John the same thing: Mourn him because he is gone.

John refused for so many years, but with each passing birthday, he began to accept the likely truth. The little, blond boy who had followed him around like a shadow and seemed to start every sentence with "but Daddy, why…" was no more. Letting Dean's last birthday pass without noting it seemed to be the final shovel of dirt on his coffin. John knew, in his heart, that he would always hope for the miracle but in his head, he had known for nearly a decade that his first-born was gone. It was why he always found himself looking for leads on boys who matched Samuel's profile. He was the more likely one to have survived. He was a baby and the likely target (again, investigators and hunters agreed on that). His wife's own revelation (after the shocking one that she was a hunter—and what the hell that meant) of an implied threat many years earlier from an evil creature about coming to see her sealed that. A decade after her parents died so mysteriously was the year Samuel was born. If the thing that killed her family was going to come for Dean, it had four years to do so. That it chose the year their youngest was born made Dean simply a bystander casualty.

Thoughts like that never helped John sleep. Of course, he learned, that was why Tequila was invented.

**oOoOoOo**


	3. Chapter 3

**oOoOoOo**

The hangover that woke John the next morning was his first in a long time. It was not his worst ever, but it certainly made the brilliant sunshine outside a thing of misery. He didn't recall crawling into the bed the night before, but he gave himself points for not waking up on the floor. It always happened this way. Whenever another lead dried up, he felt to pieces again and just needed to be numb for a few hours; then he needed the pain of the hangover. It helped steel him for another day without his family. The difference this time was, John had given up before he even had confirmation from Bobby that he was wrong about this kid, too.

What seemed like such a sure thing the day before, fell apart as darkness crept over the city and the painful memories of his lost boys got the better of John. Now, hours later, he was faced with two choices: Go wait for the kid to ask him the questions, or simply leave (taking Bobby's advice to walk away) and head for South Dakota to deliver the box of volcanic crystals.

John was torn. He had orders (ones he had agreed to follow) from Bobby, but the Winchester stubborn streak eagerly wanted to win again.

Pushing all thoughts of the crystals from his mind, John mulled his decision. Leaving was the smart thing, probably the right thing, but he knew in his heart that he couldn't. He had to know, maybe he even wanted the pain of knowing he was wrong. Hurting, at least, let him know he was still here, still alive. How his wife managed to function and never show the agony was a mystery to him. Striking back and killing the things that preyed on families was her nerve tonic. Each drop of blood she drew from them was supposed to wash away her own pain.

John doubted it worked for her. Anytime he saw her, the haunted look of loss from the disappearance of their sons (and her guilt over it) radiated from her eyes like neon.

Not that they saw each other often or for long anymore. Now that she had returned to her family's "calling" John's in-person contact with Mary was limited. He missed her and wondered if someday he would see her only to be delivered with a set of divorce papers. Not that they had a marriage in anything more than name now. Or worse, he feared he would get a call from Bobby telling him that finally one of those damn beasts or ghosts got the better of her and that John was now a widower as well.

Rather than think further about the only member of his family who he could still speak with, John pulled himself out of bed and decided to stay one more day in Chicago. What was 24 more hours lost compared to his son's entire lifetime? It's not as though Bobby liked or trusted him all that much anyway. He would show up the next day with the bastard's damn magic rocks and face the bitching then.

Instead, John busied himself through the day by returning to the group home. It was not a stellar institution. Apparently, the priests overseeing it were old and not precisely interested in watching over their charges. Several contract workers took care of the day-to-day functions. One was most certainly selling drugs there; two others were shady but for reasons John could not pinpoint. The kids who called the place home, eight boys and three girls, all under the age of 15, seemed to come and go as they pleased. Several were at the home rather than school when John dropped in posing as a census taker. He learned nothing about the children who lived there other than none of them were named Oliver, and no one there had ever read the book Oliver Twist. No one would give him the names of the boys who resided there, and no one would admit that they knew the boy in the picture, but their denials were weak.

Sighing with defeat, John spent the rest of the day waiting. He parked his car opposite the small grocery store where the bus would drop off the kids in the afternoon. Settling in to wait, he tipped his throbbing head back. A fistful of aspirin had not taken much of the edge off, which told him the headache was more stress and grief-induced agony than chemical repayment for his overindulgence the night before. As the day wore on, the blue skies turned gray and dreary, matching John's mood. By the time the buses began rolling by, there was a fine mist coated the windows and a fog was rolling off Lake Michigan.

Late in the afternoon, kids began to flood the street. A few older ones dropped into the store and departed with soda and chips. A few others raced by, shouting profanity at each other like they had invented it. John's eyes next fell next on a thin kid who arrived on a bike. The water from the sky was pooling quickly on the ground as the boy surfed to the corner and hit his breaks, sending a spray of it onto the sidewalk as the little shit skidded to a stop. John smirked, remembering doing the same thing in gravel as a kid and getting yelled at by his stepfather for leaving marks in the driveway. He swallowed hard as another wave of heartache and regret washed over him; he'd never taught either of his boys to ride a bike. Dean was supposed to get a bike for his fifth birthday, which fell a few months after he disappeared. With a heavy sigh, John looked at the back of this dark-haired boy in the zip-up gray hooded sweatshirt. From a distance, he had that thin and newly-tall look, as if he didn't get the nourishment to fill out his frame sufficiently. He wore an oddly versatile sling style backpack that was held by a single strap across his chest, probably allowing for greater ease when riding the bike. His hands were covered by fingerless gloves, the kind a sniper or a homeless man might wear. His jeans were faded and torn at the knee. He hurried into the store without looking at or speaking to any of the other children then vanished into the sea of little people.

Before John could make any other observations of the other kids who descended on the store, two fire trucks and an ambulance tore down the street, obliterating the store from view for several minutes. When the commotion in his viewing lane finally disappeared, the bus he was looking for was already on the next corner. John jumped from his car and ran across the street, nearly making himself a hood ornament on a gypsy cab in the process. He threw a few terse words at the driver then ran into the store. He looked around hurriedly but saw no little boys matching the looks of the photo in his pocket. His frantic search finally fell on the face of his friendly information factory.

"Hey, PI Guy," Chris grinned. "You just missed him."

"I didn't see him," John said frantically. "Which way did he go?"

"No idea," he shrugged. "Dodger picked him up." John looked at him blankly. He hadn't seen anyone walking a little boy down the street. "The kid on the bike. He rides that damn thing year-round, even in the winter. He's gonna get himself killed one of these days."

_Kid on the bike? The little shit in the sweatshirt with the sniper gloves. Figures. _

John ran from the store and scanned the street. He saw nothing. Figuring he had a 50 percent chance of getting it right, he took off east, toward the lake. There was less traffic in this direction, and it was the quickest way back to the group home. He reasoned a young kid on a bike would also prefer the safety of less traveled side streets. As he rounded the corner, he saw he was half right. It was the correct direction, but safety did not appear to be one of this rider's concerns. There was some yelling John could hear over the din of the traffic as the bike dangerously and manically weaved through an abandoned construction site while charioting a younger boy on the handlebars. Whether the shouts were in joy or fear, John could not tell. He just knew each yelp clenched his heart and sent his feet pounding faster in their direction.

_Sammy?_

As the duo rounded a corner, John stepped into a deep puddle, wrenching his ankle and shouting in pain. Despite the stabs that told him this was not a serious sprain, he clenched his teeth then continued to hobble forward. As he turned onto the next street, he was faced with nothing. There were no boys. No bike. No traffic. No noise.

"Damn it!" he seethed as he reached down to his sodden pant leg and felt the swelling at his ankle.

In the distance, the sky rumbled as the rain grew steadier. A flash overhead signaled the start of a pop up storm rolling off the mighty lake. John felt the big drops, like tears from the sky, pelt the back of his head as he stooped massaging his injured leg.

John Winchester was not a man who cried over physical pain. And that did not change in this instance. Though tears dribbled out of his eyes, he knew they had nothing to do with the throbbing in his foot and leg. They were for two boys, his boys, lost so long ago although the ache in his heart was fresh yet again. He cursed softly under his breath again and began to rise from his position when his eyes caught sight of a long mark, swiftly disappearing as the rain began to obliterate it, tearing up the spot that had once been a small parking lot behind the derelict building stalled in its renovation.

A bike track.

John limped with renewed determination across the lot and into an alley where he lost the studded breadcrumbs of a trail but found himself facing yet another building falling down on itself. The brick was leprous and crumbling; the windows were boarded up and the doors chained… mostly. A side door, half way down the alley was not flush with the building. Curiously, John approached and nudged it open to hear voices, small voices, calling out to each other excitedly like they were in the middle of a firefight.

"I'm pinned own," a little squeak of a voice cried. "Second floor. I'm nearly out of ammo!"

"I'm coming," an older voice announced and the sound of pounding feet echoed in the hollow building.

The sounds of little boys mimicking the gunfire followed. John smirked. In his day, it was cowboys and Indians in the back fields in the evening twilight. Today, it was urban warfare in abandoned buildings during summer storms. He shook his head at the twisted innocence of the game and moved forward, seeing the muddy, wet track of the bike. He peered down the next hallway and saw it propped against the wall with two backpacks resting by the wheels.

He continued on toward the open stairwell and could hear the racing of feet on the upper floor, more fake shooting followed by the younger voice groaning theatrically in pain and proclaiming he'd been hit before a protracted gasping and moaning death scene took place. Apparently, the performance was less convincing than intended as the older boy's voice fell into a fit of laughter.

"That is soooooo bad," he guffawed. "That wasn't even good enough to make it in the Kindergarten play!"

"Oh yeah," his young companion shot back, angrily. "How would you know? You never been in a play."

"I've also never been in so much pain from laughing, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong," the older boy continued to chuckle.

"So how's it supposed to look if you know everything?" the younger one groused.

John climbed the stairs quietly and located the room where the massacre was to have taken place. From the hallway, he could see both children. The older one had his back to the door, but the young child was turned toward the open portal and his face snatched John's breath away. The young boy (_oh god, look at that sour face, that's Mary's pissed off expression!_) sat in a heap on the floor scowling up at his friend. With his back still to John, the older companion (the Dodger, John assumed) just shook his dark head and walked forward to give the younger kid a casual a hand up.

"When they get shot, they usually scream in pain," the Dodger shrugged. "They don't say '_I'm hit'_ or roll around like a puppy wrestling with a blanket. They fall down and they… they scream and cry or… they just don't move at all anymore."

He said it slowly and softly, like he didn't like knowing, but in his hesitation and the sudden evaporation of his echoing laughter, John did not doubt the Dodger had seen things that were the foundation of his knowledge. John, too, knew what it looked like when a man was shot. Crying and then not moving covered it pretty often in combat. It was hard enough to take when he was in his 20s in Vietnam. Being a kid in junior high with that knowledge made John feel sorry for the boy.

"Oh," the young one said, accepting the information as gospel, then looked up and gasped as his eyes met John's.

The child slid backward on his behind as he scrambled to his feet. His startling reaction sent the older boy into a quick spin in search of the trouble. John saw only a blur of the older one's face as he, too, turned and instantly barked the word 'run' to his young friend upon seeing John, which was unnecessary as both were already pounding down another hallway.

"No, wait!" John shouted and snarled as he was forced to hoof it on his bump leg again. "Stop! I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to talk to you."

The boys raced up another flight of stairs. John figured this was a preferred play spot for them and did not think he could outmaneuver them on the upper levels in their territory. Then he realized he did not have to. The bike, obviously a valued possession, was downstairs with the backpacks. Taking a deep breath to calm his heart, he made his way painfully down the stairs. He checked the first floor and found only the pried open door as an exit. He stepped outside and placed himself beside a dumpster just beyond the door as a concealed viewing spot. There, he waited.

The duo were cleverly cautious, he'd give them that much. If Chris's assessment was accurate, the Dodger was streetwise. He would wait until the coast was clear before he and his little friend stepped outside.

It was nearly 30 minutes of silence before the protest of the hinges sounded in the alley. Darkness had fallen in the continual rain. The thunder had ceased crashing and the lightning flashes were a memory, but the dark clouds remained and wrung themselves out over the city. Under the cover of the darkened skies, the older kid peeked his head out then nosed the bike onto the pavement. He looked up and down the alley and then jerked his head forward. The young boy hopped out behind him and trotted forward. John stepped out of his space, his foot slapping loudly on the wet asphalt due to his uncertain gait.

The noise was all the older boy needed to set off the alarm again. He let go of his bike, toppling it to the ground beside him then tore the backpack off the younger one's shoulders as shoved him forward.

"Run!" he screamed.

The young boy ran without looking back, his little legs pumping and churning like his life depended upon it. He was around the corner and out of sight quickly. The older one started to grab his bike and the discarded bags as he prepared to follow.

John's long stride covered the short distance to the scared teen instantly, although he seethed with each step of pain. He didn't bother to yell this time. He conserved his breath and simply lunged forward, grabbing the boy's backpack and jerking him backward to a standstill.

"Get your fucking hands off me!" the boy yelled, thrashing as he tried to slip out of John's grasp, but he held firm as he grasped both the backpack strap and the soaked hood of the boy's sweatshirt.

"I'm not going to hurt you so calm down," John said, spinning the kid around to get his first look at the child's face.

The rain was coming down in thick drops at that point. The steady, soaking of several moments earlier gave way to a deluge from the sky, but for John Winchester, it was as if the sun popped out and the most beautiful summer day dawned around him as he looked into the pale and frightened face, adorned with freckles, and punctuated by a set of large, green eyes ringed by a thick mat of dark lashes.

_Dean_.

John's heart crushed itself as it constricted in shock and his breath got stuck in his chest as it felt like he was sucker punched.

It was Dean.

It had to be.

Even more than the age enhanced photo of Sammy, this boy's features were nearly identical to what the experts said John's oldest son might look like at age 13. Grant, this boy's hair was much darker, but otherwise, the image was a near-perfect match. In fact, the similarities between this boy and the toddler who John had read bedtimes stories to were immense. The features were 10 years older, but those green eyes? Those thick, dark lashes? The freckles and that pale face? It was his son, his first-born, the one he was certain was lost, which could only mean the one who ran off was in fact Sammy.

John's heart tripped and flipped and pumped at three times the normal rate as his hands began to shake while he stared into the face of his eldest son. Tears welled in his eyes and a lump the size of a baseball rose in his throat.

"D-Dean?" John stammered as he tried to find his voice.

"Let me go!" he shouted and thrashed. His green eyes were wild and wary at hearing the name.

"Hey, hey," John said, releasing him and holding up his hands in a calming pose. "It's okay, buddy. I'm not going to hurt you."

The frightened teen deftly pulled a switchblade from his back pocket and ejected the blade. He pointed it menacingly at John and returned a determined and taunting stare.

"Damn right you're not," he replied coldly.

Rather than back off in fear of the knife-wielding teen, John beamed at him. The boy shirked back and narrowed his gaze at seeing the bright smile.

"Dean," John croaked and took a step forward. "You're alive. I… I can't believe it. It's me, son. Don't you recognize me?"

"Who the fuck is me?" he snarled back, the knife point still aiming in John's direction.

"Put the knife down, Dean," John shook his head. "You don't want to get hurt."

"I'm not the one who should be worried about the knife, jackass," he replied. His voice was controlled, but his quick breathing betrayed that brave act. "You stay right where you are."

"I'm not going to hurt you, son," John promised taking another step.

"Damn right you're not, and I'm not your son or your friend or your… plaything or whatever the fuck you're looking for you perv," Dean snapped.

"No, Dean, I mean…," John shook his head in disbelief. "It's me. Daddy."

"Oh, nice, why didn't you just show up with a puppy or ask me if I want candy?" Dean scoffed. "I'm not some idiot you can bribe into doing… whatever, so just start walking away now you creep."

"No," John smiled. "This isn't a ploy, and I'm not some pervert looking to hurt you. Dean, that's your name, right?"

He said nothing in return, but the harder glint in his wary eyes was the affirmative response John hoped for. His pulse pounded, and he felt lightheaded. He knew he was grinning, and it was creeping out his son to no end.

"It's me, Dean," John said warmly, nearly choking on his last words. "I'm your father."

"Yeah, I don't think so," Dean shook his head. "Time to adjust your meds, nutjob."

"I can't believe this," John said lowering his hands, hoping it would further calm the tense creature in front of him. "It's really you. You and your brother are… Where is Sammy? Where did he go?"

"None of your business," Dean said, taking a cautious step backward as the rain intensified and the wind picked up. "You leave him the hell alone. Get this: I am not afraid of you, so if you go anywhere near him, I will carve you into little bits."

"Dean, please, just calm down," John offered, his throat strangled with emotion as he raised his hands to wipe tears from his watering eyes. "I'm just… so happy to see you. I can't believe you're here."

"Not for long," Dean said, then spun on his heel and dashed out of the alley.

"Shit!" John spat and took off after him. "Dean! Dean, come back!"

The boy was light on his feet and pelted out of sight around the corner. John growled and hurried after him as fast and well as he could. The falling rain blurred his vision but did not obscure the sounds that reached his ears. The blare of a horn and the screech of tires on pavement tore through him as he rounded the corner to see brake lights filling the night air and driver's getting out of cars. When one of them yelled for someone to call an ambulance, John's heart froze.

**oOoOoOo**


	4. Chapter 4

**oOoOoOo**

John leaned heavily on the wall as he held the handset of the payphone to his ear. The sounds of the ER filled the air as people and nurses and cops paraded up and down the halls while a monsoon raged outside. All these people, helpers and savers, within his reach and John couldn't imagine feeling more helpless or alone. That was why he made the phone call. He needed someone more crafty and in control than an armed officer of the law or even a topnotch doctor. He needed a special kind of specialist.

"Bobby, what do I do now?" John demanded frantically, glad the man accepted the charges when he called.

He was prepared to do whatever the man said. Kick in the doors to the treatment area and steal his son, light the hospital on fire, strip naked and carve sigils in his chest to do a blood spell—anything… except what the man asked him to do: Wait.

John had given Bobby the rundown of the day's events. He was shivering internally from the upheaval and externally from his soaked clothing. He was already drenched to the bone when the boys first left their abandoned building club house. Squatting in the torrential downpour over his son's motionless body until paramedics arrived had just made him even more clammy. Droplets of water still fell from his hair despite being under the cover of the hospital roof for nearly an hour.

"You put yourself in a corner and shut your mouth and let me handle this," Bobby replied gruffly. "Now, you absolutely sure it's him?"

"Three hundred percent," John answered. "His name is Dean. He's the right age. He looks identical to the KBI photos. Hell, he looks like his damn baby pictures still. He was with the boy I thought was Sammy, which means that kid is Sammy. This whole time, they were together. I can't believe this. Here, in Chicago. I've been here a dozen times in the last few years, and I never… I can't… How do I get him to…?"

He pounded his fist soundly into the concrete wall, not caring about the pain that shot up his arm or the quick and worrisome stares he got from the people passing by. They left quickly enough that they were of no concern.

"You don't do a damn thing," Bobby ordered. "You just sit there and wait. I'm still checking on things, but…. Well, I think… This is a good lead, John, a damn good one. I know it seems certain to you right now and maybe it is, but don't be going in there and proclaiming you're his father. You got that? Mary and I have told you why in the past, and nothing has changed."

John gnashed his teeth. From the start, Mary and Bobby believed something, rather than someone, took the boys. They explained to John why the police might never be able to help them locate their sons and while that seemed to be true, John did not like standing just 50 feet from his firstborn and not be able to see him. He'd been able to touch the boy, place a trembling hand on his face as he lay unconscious in the street following the accident at the intersection. It took every ounce of willpower John had not to scoop the boy up in his arms; the only thing that kept his will strong was knowing he might injure his child further by such an act.

According to the driver, Dean had darted into traffic. He was bumped at a low speed by the oncoming car. In an effort to brace himself against the impact, he put his hands forward. The nudge from one car's front bumper threw off his balance sending him toppling backward in the car directly behind him. He struck the back of his head against the trunk of that car. The blow rendered him unconscious instantly, but the actual cut in his head was minimal and all indications were the injury was minor.

John had stayed around until the paramedics loaded his son into the ambulance. He let them take Dean away, listing him as a John Doe. The heart-wrenching orders of his wife and Bobby about not identifying his sons if he ever found them ringing loudly in John's ears in that instant. He might not always like what they told him, but John had seen enough of the darkness that walked the earth to know he had to trust the hunters' instincts.

So, he had been forced to run back to his car, grabbing the two discarded backpacks in the alley (but leaving the bike while vowing he would buy the kid a new one) and chased the ambulance to Cook County Hospital. He was nicely camouflaged in the chaos of the place on a late Friday afternoon during a torrential storm that was spawning lots of small accidents. All the while the medical personnel checked on the injuries to the boy, John's mind was racing and his heart hammering and failing alternately.

_Dean and Sammy. I found them. I found them both!_

Sammy was, presumably, back at the building they called home currently. John shook his head, imagining the boy's fear as he waited for his brother to return. He wondered if the police were already looking for Dean as Sammy would surely have told someone they were chased by some madman out of their chosen playground. John steered clear of the patrol men in the hallway, in case, as he heeded Bobby's warnings. He didn't stray too far from the triage area where Dean was brought by the paramedics.

John shifted from foot-to-foot nervously and kept shooting furtive glances toward the restricted area. Dean was back there, hurt and alone, and it was partially John's fault. He had spooked his son and sent him running fearfully into traffic. His heart plummeted yet again as his mind flashed to the slack and pale expression on the boy's face as he lay unconscious in the street with a puddle of blood forming where the head injury leaked.

"In anticipation of this panning out, I'm sending help," Bobby said dragging him back into the moment. "When he gets there, you'll know who he is. You wait for him to contact you, and then just do what he says—no matter what he says. Now, what about the other boy?"

"Sammy," John said, resting his head on the wall by the phone. "He took off before Dean got hurt. I guess he headed back to the group home. I don't think he was around when the accident happened. I didn't see him at the accident scene."

"How is Dean doing?" Bobby asked.

Bobby Singer didn't exactly dislike John Winchester, but he wasn't on his Christmas card list either. John was helpful when he felt like it. He knew enough about hunting to be a little scared and a lot disappointed—mostly in his estranged wife. The only reason the guy didn't turn tail and coat himself in an extra thick layer of denial was the unwavering hope he had that he might find his boys someday through all those means which made him fear his wife's family legacy and hate her a little for the secret she kept from him. Bobby suspected some part of John still blamed her for the loss of their boys, although there never was a single shred of evidence anything supernatural took them (unless you counted the fact there wasn't a shred of any evidence at all, ever—which was frankly all the proof Bobby needed to show it was otherworldly).

"The nurse told me it looks like a mild concussion only," John sighed. "Thank god. The car was just starting to move through the intersection when the light changed so it didn't hit him too hard, but still…."

"He didn't actually get hit but just bumped his head?" Bobby surmised. "No broken bones and no internal bleeding is a good thing, John."

"Yeah, I know," John sighed. "It's just hard seeing him hurt at all. They said they can discharge him in the morning, but they're looking for his family, and I'm right here but can't say anything. It's killing me!"

"I told you, I'm taking care of that," Bobby replied. "You just stick as close to him as you can without being seen or getting thrown out of there. Now, keep your mouth shut about who you think he is and who you are. You got that?"

John did what he could to stay hidden. Not that anyone paid him much attention. People roamed the halls at all hours in all states of interest. When the hallway outside Dean's room got crowded with doctors and nurses, John ducked out to the touristy shop on the corner. Figuring they cut Dean's shirt and sweatshirt off him when he arrived at the ER, John bought his son replacements, a new sweatshirt and T, both simple gray with the word Chicago emblazoned on the front of each, so he would have something of his own to wear when he left the hospital the next day. John snuck into the room once the hallway was clear and placed the gifts on the stand beside the bed. They weren't much, but it was the only thing he could do for his boy in that instant.

A lump the size of a grapefruit welled up in John's throat as he stood beside his child's hospital bed. Dean was asleep, his skin nearly as pale as the sheets. His dark lashes matted against the purple circles drawn under his tired eyes. Carefully, wary of waking the boy, John pet his son's soft hair while holding in a sob.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered in a tense voice, hoarse with restrained emotion. "I never meant for this to happen. I'll make it up to you, buddy. I promise. And your bike, I'll get you a new one. Any one that you want. After all, I owe you a lot of birthday gifts, kido."

The urge to pull up a chair and sit by the bed was strong, but John knew he could not risk being seen (being thrown out) or startling the boy. John gave himself one more minute of indulgence, just drinking in his oldest son's features and feeling the softness of his warm skin under John's tough, calloused hand. He did not enjoy seeing his boy in this state, in a hospital bed and in some amount of pain, but the mere fact that he could see him, the real flesh and bone, breathing child he had longed for and looked for, was the best gift John could think of in that moment. Pulling himself out of the room was the hardest thing he had ever done.

**oOoOoOo**

The tall, commanding and very pissed off looking black man in a flowing trench coat appeared at the nurse's station late the next morning. He flashed a state police badge in the attending nurse's face. He grumbled and fished in his pockets for an order to take custody of a runaway. She yawned, barely glanced at the orders, and pointed him to room 203. Upon arriving, he nodded once to the man skulking in the hallway. John acknowledged Rufus Turner's presence with a similar greeting. He always liked Turner, probably because the man didn't always see eye to eye with Bobby; John knew his only value in Turner's mind was that Bobby detested John. Enemy of my enemy and all that.

Turner stepped into the room and pulled a different set of credentials out. He spoke in his deep rumbling voice to Dean. The boy looked up warily and studied his offered badge carefully for several minutes then, shrugging, pulled on the new sweatshirt John had bought. He had spent the night ducking out of sight of the nurses and orderlies, spending as much time as he could in his son's room, watching over him. Each time, he studied the teen's features, much as he did the night the boy was born, and simply fell in love with him all over again. There was no doubt in his heart or his mind: This boy was Dean Winchester.

"How's your head?" Turner asked.

"Four stitches," Dean replied without really answering. "They didn't even have to shave any of my hair to put them in."

"They should have," Turner groused. "A buzz cut might teach you some discipline, like not running into traffic."

"What about my brother?" Dean asked changing the subject as he walked with a slow and aching stride out of the room with Turner's hand on his shoulder.

"He'll be joining you," the hunter replied, assuming his role of caseworker for the state's Department of Child and Family Services. "My colleague is bringing him here. DCFS is moving both of you to a more suitable home. Your evening antics have caused us concern that there is insufficient oversight at the Our Lady of Angels facility."

"That's kind of what we like about it," Dean grumbled. "Is Sam staying with me? Rules say you have to keep us together unless a judge makes a finding that…"

"I know what the rules say," Turner cut him off curtly as they turned toward the elevator. "I helped write them, boy."

"What do the rules say about getting my damn bike back?" Dean scowled. "Do you have any idea what it took to get that sweet ride?"

"No," Turner said gruffly. "Want to tell me?"

"Sure, for $50, I'll tell you the whole story," Dean scoffed, jamming is hands deeply into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

"How 'bout I send your wise ass to detention instead for trying to bribe a state official?" the hunter griped as he directed the boy into the waiting elevator car.

"This is Illinois, dude," Dean said as the doors closed on the conversation. "I thought bribery was part of the requirement for a state job."

John smirked for two reasons. First, Turner enjoyed this part of the job greatly. Next, at first blush, his son was a cocky and confident little shit. John smiled inwardly figuring some of that was genetic.

But, rather than think on that further, he raced down the stairs to beat the elevator. Once outside, he went to the parking garage as instructed and was handed a set of keys by a scrawny man in a reverend's collar. John had met Reverend Jim Murphy several times and, while he found the man's hobby of tracking werewolves and beheading harpies disturbing, he found the pastor the least objectionable of all his wife's network of "friends."

As John palmed the keys, Jim pointed to the long, black car in the far corner. John gaped for a moment.

His car. His Impala.

And it was a disgraceful mess.

It was dusty and dented and rusting in places that made him cringe. He quickly remembered again why he regretted letting his wife keep the car when they separated. He recalled her reasoning for taking it: _John, it's simple, you can fit a body in the trunk, okay?_

He found that disturbing and wondered what might be in the back at that moment. He turned back to Jim and was about to ask him that question, but the man halted him.

"A woman named Ellen, a friend of Bobby's, has your other son in a car on the second level," he explained. "The sooner we get out of the city, the sooner we will have your sons in a safe place. I will accompany them on the journey. You need to go ahead of us. Rufus and Ellen will be driving out this way shortly, so you need to leave now. Do as Bobby told you this morning. Just drive away. Leave the city and do not stop. Head to my home in Blue Earth; we will meet you there this evening. It will take you approximately seven hours to get there. Use that time well, John. Figure out what you are going to tell your sons and how you are going to do it."

"What about Mary?" John asked. "I didn't know how to tell her any of this so I haven't tried to locate her yet."

"She will be told," he replied and pointed firmly to the car for him to leave. "Now go."

The drive seemed to take no time at all. What took longest was the wait for the pastor and the others to arrive with his sons. John worried about them getting pulled over, about accidents, about the boys being afraid and trying to run if they got suspicious. John paced and fretted and stared anxiously at the driveway as the daylight failed and night started to arrive. He was sitting in near darkness when the phone rang, making him fly out of his perch where he watched for the anticipated guests. He hurried to the phone, terrified of who it might be.

Once he answered, he had a different kind of knot in his chest.

"Hello?" he answered in a fearful voice.

"John?" Mary's voice carried over the line frantic. "Is that you?" He grunted an affirmative response. "Bobby told me… he said… Is it true?"

Her voice cracked with the strain of not daring to believe and with the overwhelming feeling of a long nightmare finally being over.

"I found them, Mary," he said in a choked sob as he continued to stare at the long driveway in anticipation of the car arriving. "It was a fluke or a miracle. I don't know, but yeah. It's them, the boys. Both of them, Mary. Sammy and Dean. They've been together the whole time, and now they're coming home."

"My god," she gasped. "Where have they…? How did you…?"

"I don't know yet," John said. "I just know I stumbled across them in Chicago. I know that they're alive, and we're getting them back."

She cried softly, murmuring words of thanks. Her crying always twisted his heart and made him feel worse, except now. These were tears of joy.

"Thank you," she said in a strained voice barely audible above her tears.

That wrenched John's heart dry. He felt that must tell her something, anything, to bring back the euphoric feeling of knowing their prayers were answered.

"You should see them, Mary," he said. "I mean, you will see them, and when you do…. Oh, Mary, they're… they're… I don't even know what to say."

"Are they okay?" her voice grew thin. "Are they healthy?"

"Yes, mostly," John replied. "Dean had a little accident, nothing serious."

"Bobby said he had minor injuries," she asked, needing more confirmation. "What does that mean? Bobby's definition of minor and mine are not exactly on the same page some days."

"It was just a bump on the head," John assured her. "He got a pretty healthy tap there on the sweet spot at the back of his head. That sort of blow would knock anyone out, and it doesn't need to be a hard to do it. Dean was coming around on his own once the paramedics were with him. They put a few stitches in the cut and kept him overnight for observation. Sammy wasn't with him so he didn't see any of that. So, yeah, otherwise, they seem okay."

"I can't believe this," she said drawing a shaky breath. "Where have they been all this time?"

"I know that until last night, they were living in a… well, like an orphanage run by a church," John said. "They looked a little neglected—clothes a little worn out and maybe a little thin, and tired like they don't get enough sleep, but I watched them playing together and… they were pretty active and seemed happy. I mean, they were having fun. It was… like we used to dream about them being close when Sammy was just starting to sit up and take an interest in Dean."

His mind quickly shot back to the last time he saw them together in their Batman and Robin incarnation. Dean had badly wanted a sidekick when he played superhero so as soon as Sammy could sit up, the baby was co-opted for the post. It looked to John like that bond had only grown over the years.

"My babies," Mary wept. "You found my babies."

"Our babies," he said but let his anger slide away. He was not in the mood to fight with her, not over this. They'd spent so many years blaming each other and hating each other over not having their boys that doing so over finding them seemed pointless.

"Tell me everything," she pleaded.

"Well, I don't know much," John admitted. "They're going to school and live in that home. Sammy's in the fourth grade and seems to want to be in a school play. Dean is in junior high, and he's…colorful."

He paused. He really knew nothing about Sammy outside of a few moments of observation. What he knew about Dean actually concerned him—carrying a switchblade, accusations of petty thievery, knowledge of gunshot victims, attitude about adults needing a slight adjustment, and a mouth like a…

"Dean's not blond anymore," he said, snatching on something he could divulge happily.

"He's not?" she sniffled and seemed to chuckle painfully at the information.

"Not a bit," John replied. "His hair is dark, like my color now. He's getting tall. He's maybe five and a half feet tall now. He still has the thick lashes and all of his freckles. He's a good looking kid; they both are, Mary."

Mary sniffled, taking in the details and making soft murmuring sounds as she cried on the other end of the line. For once, it didn't drive a stake into John's heart to hear it. These, he knew, were happy tears.

"Sammy's hair is darker too, but not as dark as Dean's," he continued, reveling in saying their names again and being able to talk about them in the present tense. "It's kind of a light brown and very straight. He's gotten taller, too, obviously. I guess he's maybe 4'9". No more pudgy cheeks though. He still has the same hazel eyes and that wistful expression, like he was thinking about everything in the whole world all at once."

Mary gasped and sighed in pleasure and pain. She wanted to badly to be there with him to meet them that instant, but there were too many miles to go before she could be. John could hear her longing with each unsteady breath she drew.

"Both of them have a bit of a daredevil streak," John continued, feeling closer to her in that instant than he had in years despite the miles separating them. "Dean was letting Sammy ride on the handlebars of his bike, and they were playing war games in an abandoned building afterschool. They're close, Mary. Dean was really looking out for Sammy. When he thought his little brother needed protecting, Dean got Sammy out of there quickly. Uh, not to worry you, but there are other things…"

The whole Artful Dodger part came to John's mind again. Chris did say Dean wasn't a total delinquent, but that didn't mean he was a saint either.

"I think they've had it kind of rough," John said. "They don't have much. They don't actually have anything now. They also don't remember us. Sammy, obviously wouldn't, but Dean… Mary, he didn't recognize me. Even after I told him who I was, he didn't seem to know me."

"Well, it was a shock, John," she offered. "Someone shows up unexpectedly and tells you he is your long lost father? Of course you're going to doubt him. He hasn't seen you since he was four. And we don't know what happened to them. Maybe once we know more, it'll help us understand."

"Yeah," he nodded. "Where are you?"

"I was in Garber, Oklahoma," she said. "I stopped to get coffee and gas. I'm heading to Sioux Falls. I wanted to go right to you but…."

"We're going to Bobby's in the morning," John said. "Pastor Jim said he wanted to look the boys over here. I probably don't want to know what that means, do I?"

"He won't do anything to hurt them," she said, knowing that's what her husband meant.

He had been on the wrong side of a "check" once himself. He did not appreciate the caution the hunters took in verifying his humanity. Still, once the skinwalker entered the cabin posing as their friend Caleb and nearly killed all of them, John learned there were certain unpleasant necessities he would just need to accept if he was to remain in contact with his wife.

"Good," John said. "I don't know what they've been through, but crazy preachers carving them up with silver knives to make sure they're not monsters is probably not the best way to reintroduce them to their family."

**oOoOoOo**


	5. Chapter 5

**oOoOoOo**

Dean sat in the car, staring at the darkening landscape. There was no talking. He could tell himself it was politeness on the part of the adults because he and Sam were told to get some rest, but he didn't believe it. They weren't talking because they were hiding something—who they were and where they were going primarily.

The priest, or whatever the hell he was, occasionally looked over his shoulder from the front seat to check on the passengers. Dean refused to meet his eye. He wasn't all that trusting of church-types. He had no first-hand knowledge of priests' interest in altar boys, but he was told some pretty sick stories by other kids who passed through Our Lady of Angels. That was the reason he never let Sam go to the "home" without him. The old priests there didn't pay them much attention, but some of the attendants they hired sure did like to take long and lingering looks at the younger kids. Dean had earned a few lumps keeping people with the wrong kind of interest away from his brother and wasn't opposed to getting a few more if he needed to. Protecting Sam was one of the few constants in his life.

Instead of making eye contact with the church guy, Dean stared at the back of the driver's head. He seemed like the leader here, if only because no one disagreed with him. Not that he said much, but whatever he did say, they followed. He was the surly, black man who spirited him out of the hospital like this was something he did all the time. The stern guy would glance in the rear view mirror once in a while to catch the eye of the woman seated in the back with Dean and Sam. She was quiet and didn't do much more than drape her coat over Sam, who was asleep, using Dean's shoulder as a pillow.

Dean wanted to sleep. Long car rides did that to him. Add to that the swimming feeling in his head and the clammy feeling he'd had off and on for days, and sleep seemed like a good idea. But sleep was hard even if he was in the bed assigned to him at the "home" (or as Dean thought of it as 'kid jail'). He had an unrelenting soreness in his throat. All week, he wanted only to crawl into bed, now when he was given the chance, he couldn't' sleep. He couldn't leave Sam unattended.

Dean had figured out when they began driving out of the city that these people were not with the state. They weren't dumb enough or asking the same stupid questions. Who they were was a mystery, but Dean didn't want to let on that he knew they were lying. He wasn't sure where they were going, but as soon as Sam got enough sleep, he would formulate their escape.

His head was working fast, at a dizzying pace which didn't help his concussion any, and just increased his anxious feelings. That man in the alley, the one with the dark eyes, Dean did remember him. Or, he thought he did. He couldn't be sure. It had been a long time since he let himself think of 'his home' or them, the parents he waited for so long to find him and his brother. When the man in the alley grabbed him as he and Sam snuck out of the building, Dean was surprised (not scared) because there was something instantly familiar about him—Dean just didn't know what it was. When he said he was Dean's father, Dean wanted to hit him, to call him a liar, to run away (again, because he was surprised and mad, and definitely not scared).

If these people were bringing him and Sam to that man… Dean wasn't sure it was safe. Their father never came for them when they were taken from their beds the first time. Dean waited so long for him to come and get him and Sam. He had cried for his father and called to him; he asked anyone who would listen to find him and his mother, the lady with the blond hair who read him bedtime stories and sang him to sleep. But no one brought them or looked for them. Or, and he feared this might be the case, the authorities did find his parents, but they just didn't want him and Sam back.

Dean's memories of his home were bundled up tight and tossed into a far corner of his mind. He didn't look into that spot much. What was the point? That life ended for him the night the man came into his room and took him out of his bed. Sammy was mostly asleep in the man's arms. Dean tried to get away from him, but he seemed to be everywhere. How they got out of the house was a blur. Dean didn't remember much after the man grabbed him. The next thing he remembered was being cold. It was dark and damp, and he was sitting on a cement step outside a brick building. He shivered as he held onto his little brother and had cried. Sammy hollered too, which was what brought the firemen out of the building.

The firemen had been nice, and let Dean wear one of their helmets until the police arrived. That's when things got bad. They were taken to the hospital and then to jail (or maybe it was just the police station, he remembered that there were desks and a lot of cops but no donuts). Then came the progression of people talking to him, asking him the same stupid questions over and over again started. He told them his first name and his brother's first name. He couldn't remember his last name, which was frustrating because he knew that he knew it. And his phone number—his mother had made him memorize it, and he had known it when he went to bed that night, but the knowledge vanished just like his bedroom did.

Then, after many years and many more houses and caretakers (Dean used that word loosely as no one seemed to care for them very much at all), the man with the dark hair, who looked a lot like the man he once called Daddy who had played with his toy cars with him, had appeared in that alley. How that man knew that he and Sam were in the old building was creepy. It was like he had followed them, which made Dean wonder if he really had known where they were the whole time and just not bothered to come for them.

"We're almost there," the woman, Ellen, told him in a warm, comforting tone.

"Can't wait," Dean said flatly as he rolled his eyes.

The rest of the ride was silent until they pulled into a gravelly driveway in front of a house that looked austere and in need of a serious paint job. Dean jostled Sam awake and took his hand. Sam resisted for a moment, then took stock of their location, basically nowhere, and looked understandingly at Dean. Sam was too old for his brother to hold his hand, unless there was serious trouble and Dean needed to silently telegraph signals to shut up or to run without speaking or breaking eye contact with whatever danger they were facing. Sam shivered in the cool, evening air and stood close to his brother. He rubbed his eyes as the light from the porch spilled into the smooth darkness. He tensed as the front door opened and the man from the abandoned building stepped out and rushed toward them.

The reverend, he called himself Jim, stopped the man and whispered to him. The man nodded and took a step back. He put his hands in his pockets and set his jaw firmly as he nodded, not happy with whatever was said but accepting it. For a moment, Sam stared at him. The man's posture and expression were so similar to the way Dean reacted sometimes. Sam looked to his brother to whisper that but stopped as he saw Dean glaring at the man.

"Come on, boys," Jim said, coaxing them forward. "Don't want the mosquitoes to feast on you."

Sam and Dean stepped passed the man. Sam noted that Dean put himself between Sam and the stranger from the alley as his brother looked at the man coldly. They entered the house and were led to a living room with a sagging couch and a lot of books. Sam marveled at them until a quick squeeze on his hand let him know Dean didn't want him looking at anything other than the people. He could feel his brother's body tense as they were directed to the couch. Dean refused to sit.

"Hey lady, take Sam in the kitchen for some water," Dean said.

Sam smiled defiantly. If Dean was letting Sam leave the room without him, he must trust the woman. Sam agreed with that. She seemed nice. The looks on the men's faces was stony and uncertain. Sam almost felt bad for them. If they thought they were going to order Dean around, they were wrong. Even cops couldn't do that. Of course, that also worried Sam. When Dean didn't do what he was ordered, some people knew ways to force him. He shot his older brother a cautioning gaze. Dean shook his head then jerked is chin in a silent order of his own. He wanted Sam to step into the next room. He dropped Sam's hand letting his brother know he felt that he could at least trust the woman. Sam swallowed hard and did as he was instructed. The man from the alley looked hurt by this but did nothing as Pastor Jim nodded his agreement.

Once Sam was in the kitchen, Dean stepped forward and spoke in a low tone so he would not be overheard in the next room.

"You're not with the state," he said. "I figured that out about 10 minutes into the drive here. Now, what the hell are you going to do with us?"

He picked his words cautiously. He didn't have his switch blade and while he knew he could get in a few good shots with elbows, fits, knees and feet to any one of them, the thought of taking on three of them was just suicide. He didn't get the feeling the reverend would fight back, but Dean was pretty sure the black guy was carrying a gun and probably liked to shoot people (and he was the only one of these guys Dean actually trusted a bit).

"Dean, we have a lot to tell you, and it's not going to be easy to hear," Jim began.

"A lot?" Dean repeated and jerked is thumb at John. "Like how Daddy here shows up out of the blue 10 years too late to take us home? You gonna explain where the fuck you've been all this time? Or do we wait for the bitch who calls herself our mother to waltz in first?"

John gaped. The language alone coming out of the mouth that he recalled only offering praise and adulation for his parents was hard. Seeing the menacing and accusing look in his son's eyes was devastating. John wanted to tell him he was wrong and ground him in the same instant. He was prevented, though, by the pastor who nodded.

"Something like that, yes," Jim replied calmly. "Now, have a seat, and hear us out."

Dean walked to the couch but remained standing as he folded his arms and looked back with a challenging expression.

"Oh, yeah," Rufus chuckled. "I see that stubborn little bitch look. Yep, that is your boy alright, Winchester. Well, folks, it's not that I don't love a family reunion. It's that… well, I don't love a family reunion. I am done. Jim, tell Bobby he owes me—again. Winchester, adjust that boy's attitude, and maybe wash his mouth out with battery acid to clean it up. And you, boy, I like you. You keep up that sunny disposition, you hear?"

Rufus nodded briefly and walked out of the room. A moment later, a car's engine started then faded into the distance.

The pastor then nodded to Dean, once again asking him to sit. Dean again refused, offering a flat and unyielding scowl.

"Dean, you were kidnapped when you were four," the pastor said. "Your parents have spent all these years looking for you and yesterday, your father found you. I'm sure this is difficult for you to understand, but this is a good thing. You are going back to your family."

"Is that so?" Dean shrugged. "I am supposed to be cheering that he showed up to the party late or just be thankful he showed up at all?"

"I understand you are angry," Jim replied.

"Angry?" Dean repeated. "No, I'm fucking pissed."

"Dean, that's no way to talk," John said.

"Jesus, that's what bothers you?" Dean scoffed. "We've been missing for like 10 years, and you got your boxers in a knot over my language? Dude, are you that much of an asshole?"

"Hey," John raised his voice and pointed at him.

Jim stepped up and blocked John from advancing, whether to scold or take other action. He was certain John wanted to just shake the kid and get him to listen, but something about the teenager's stance bothered him. It wasn't the bad slouching posture of someone who wasn't paying attention. It was a deceptive pose. It was as if he was trying to draw John in. Dean's anger was real and bubbling off him. The minister knew hunters like this, ones itching for a fight with things stronger than they were, just to burn off that energy. If the boy felt that confident, he was either very damaged or was more skilled in taking care of himself than they realized.

"We will tell you anything you want to know, Dean," the pastor said. "Why don't we let you ask the questions for a while?"

Dean regarded him with a mixture of distrust and acceptance. The man was obviously doing some child psychology thing with him. It might work. It might not. Dean never knew if his antics and tactics threw anyone off or not. He just liked it when they let him have his say and then left him alone. He doubted he would get the latter, but he was not going to waste his opportunity at the former.

"You're not going to talk to Sam without me being there, and you're not telling him who you are," Dean said. "I'll do that. Got it?"

John wanted to disagree, but he caught Jim's stern gaze. Reluctantly and with a sour look on his face, he nodded.

"Good," Dean nodded. "What the hell is your name?"

John bit back the urge to correct the boy's language. He was not virtuous about his own, but hearing it spilling out of a child's mouth was what made it filthy. Of course, he reasoned, it was a power thing. The boy was talking tough, being aggressive, and throwing around swears was a way to assert his independence. It was a shield, a cloak, against the chaos around him in that moment. It was also, he realized, being done to challenge him, to provoke him.

"John, but you used to call me Daddy," John answered.

"Well, those days are gone, John," Dean smirked. "You got a last name? That stern guy who left, what did he call you?"

"Winchester," John said in a strangled voice. His own son didn't know their family name? Dean knew his name; he was learning to spell it when he disappeared.

"Like the rifle?" Dean asked then nodded.

Okay, it was a pretty cool last name, he thought. Way better than the dumbass one given to him by the social workers: Hardy. He always hated that; it was like a stupid punch line when anyone looked into his and Sam's file: Case of the Hardy Boys.

"Okay, John Winchester," Dean began, "what took you so long to find us? So many brothers go missing in Illinois each year that they can't find the two who showed up on the steps of a firehouse one morning? Or did you and our mother suck so badly at taking care of us that you just never reported us missing?"

John ignored the insult and the accusations in his son's words and focused on the details he could provide.

"You were taken from our home in Kansas not Illinois," John said. "It happened on Halloween night in 1983. The babysitter never heard anyone enter the house. She claimed you were both upstairs sleeping when your mother and I returned from a neighbor's house—just across the street. We were only gone for two hours. When we got home, your mother went upstairs to check on both of you. She saw you weren't in your room and figured you had gone into our room so she looked in on your brother's nursery. That's when our nightmare began."

"Your nightmare?" Dean barked. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Did you lose some sleep over it? That's too bad."

"Dean," Jim warned. "You and your brother have been through an ordeal. No one is saying otherwise. I know this is confusing and a lot to take in, but you are safe now. You are back with your family."

"My family is in the kitchen, trying to eavesdrop," Dean replied. "This guy here, he's a stranger. Now, if you don't mind, Sam's tired. He's a little freaked because he's figured out you lied to us when you pulled us out of Chicago. Where are we sleeping? I want a room, no locks on the door with a bed for Sam. I will take care of him for the rest of the night. No one else is going to speak to him. Got that?"

John wanted to disagree. He didn't know what he expected from this reunion, but this certainly was not it. He had hopes of Dean remembering him and… well, liking him and being happy to see him. The aggressive teen in front of him was… well the word punk came to mind. If he wasn't John's kid, he might want to take him out back and give him a lesson in respect. Still, he was John's son. He just wasn't the polite and (sometimes overly) giggly boy who used to run around his house and wonder why he had to wear pants when just underwear seemed fine to him.

**oOoOoOo**

Dean followed Sam into the first floor room provided by the pastor. He was pleased to note there was no lock on the door. He checked the doorknob. It was sturdy, well attached and did not grab or catch in any way that would hinder its function. Dean closed the door and slid the chair sitting in the corner in front of the door, propping the back under the handle locking he and his brother inside.

Sam looked on without surprise. Dean was always cautious like this in any new placed they stayed. He watched as his brother next checked the window, inspecting the way the sash slid up, the distance to the ground (an easy jump if a quick escape was needed) then fastened that lock and pulled the curtains shut blocking out the night.

"Where are we?" Sam asked once the inspection was done. "What's going on, Dean?"

Dean waved his brother over to the double bed squeezed into the small room. Sam climbed on and sat beside his brother. Dean fixed him with his serious face, which scared Sam because that only came out when he had bad news.

"The guy from the building, the guy in the living room," Dean began, "he's… he's our father."

"Like he adopted us?" Sam shook his head. "You said the rules say we can't be adopted unless there's a judge involved, and we meet the person, and we agree to it."

"No," Dean shook his head. "I mean, yes, that's what the rules say, but he didn't adopt us, Sam. That guy is our real father."

"You said he was dead," Sam countered.

"No, I said I thought he must be dead because he never came looking for us," Dean replied. "Apparently, he just didn't look hard enough. So, now he found us."

Sam chewed on that information for a few minutes. His heart was beating hard. On one hand, they were in a house far from Chicago with strangers and Dean was anxious. On the other hand, if their real father had finally found them, that meant they could go home, to a real home, with their own beds and maybe a yard to play in. And if their father was still alive, maybe they had a mother still, too!

"Are we going to live with him?" his little brother asked.

He was excited about the possibility and terrified at the same time. All of this sounded good, but Dean's expression was anything but that. That made Sam nervous. If Dean didn't look happy about this then that meant Sam wasn't happy about it. Sure, sometimes Dean got mad at stuff Sam didn't have a problem with, but in the end if it didn't make Dean happy there was usually something wrong with the situation, even if Sam didn't fully understand what or why.

"I don't know," Dean shook his head. "He says we were kidnapped from our home in Kansas. I kind of remember it, but not really a lot of it. None of those people who brought us here were cops, so I don't know what's going on. If we were kidnapped, there should be police involved in returning us to our family. So I don't know if John is telling me the whole story or not."

"You shouldn't call him John if he's our Dad, Dean," Sam began. "And if he's our real Dad and he came to get us, doesn't that mean he's gonna take care of us?"

"He might have sold us to pay off a gambling debt in the first place for all I know, Sam," Dean snapped, raising tears in his little brother's eyes. "I'm sorry, Sammy. Don't cry. You need to keep it together, okay? I just don't know what John's going to do. You can call him Dad if you want to, but I don't know him yet, and Dad is not a name you call a stranger."

Sam nodded, accepting that logic. Dean was always cautious whenever they met prospective parents. Sam generally liked the people they met. He didn't love any of them, but he didn't instantly dislike them the way Dean did. Sam noted the ones Dean disliked most were the ones who seemed most interested in being their parents. Correction, he told himself, in being Sam's parents. Adults always seemed to like Sam more. He didn't know if it was because he smiled more than Dean or didn't talk back the way Dean did. Maybe it was just because he was younger. Either way, Dean was always wary of adults so it made some sense to Sam that he would do the same with John. He thought it odd Dean worried John wasn't telling him everything. Sam knew Dean didn't always tell him the whole story if he thought it would make Sam worry or be scared. He didn't know what Dean remembered about their father from when he was little because Dean would never talk to Sam about their parents. So, Sam reasoned, there might be a good reason why his big brother was not willing to call John Dad even though he said he did remember the man a little bit.

"Just don't get too close to him until we know more about him, okay?" Dean said. "In the alley, back in Chicago, he was getting a little…"

"Mushy and touchy?" Sam asked warily. They learned about adults like that from the caseworkers. You were supposed to keep people like that from coming near you. Sam shivered at the thought of it again.

"Mushy, yeah, kind of," Dean nodded. "Touchy, not so much. Not then anyway, but if he gets that way with you, you know what to do, right?"

Sam nodded and bunched his fist. Dean had taught him a few things to help protect himself in case his older brother wasn't around. Sam didn't like hitting people, but he would do it if he had to. He looked forlornly at Dean and hoped he wouldn't have to show off the self-defense techniques.

"Is he nice?" Sam asked.

"How would I know?" Dean grumbled. "He kind of kidnapped us too, Sam. Sounds more criminal than nice." He paused as he saw his little brother's bottom lip begin to quiver. "But I don't think he's like an ax murderer or anything. I just don't want you to be alone with him for now. Okay? You stick close to me."

"Are we gonna runaway for real this time?" Sam whispered, both excited and terrified at the idea Dean planted in his head long ago during a particularly long stint at a bad foster home.

"I don't know," Dean replied. "I need to think, and don't talk about that. It's our secret. We don't know who might be listening to us right now."

Sam nodded, accepting that answer as Dean slid back on the bed and lay on the pillow. Sam did the same, mimicking his brother's movements expertly. Dean noticed this and smirked. He reached over and tousled his brother's hair, raising a smile on the kid's face.

"If he does keep us and turns out to be nice," Sam wondered, "do you think we'll live in a real house? Can we get a dog?"

Dean bit back the comments that flowed first to his mind like: Don't bet on it; we'll be lucky if he doesn't make us live in a doghouse. There was no point in getting the kid more scared or anxious than he was. Despite Dean's wariness toward John, he couldn't deny the guy at least looked sincere (and pissed—he looked pretty pissed anytime Dean opened his mouth). John also looked sad, like maybe he meant it when he said they were kidnapped, and he had looked.

And Kansas? They were from Kansas? That was like hours and hours from Illinois. Dean lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling as the fatigue started to overtake him. His throat was still scratchy and his head hurt. The bump on the back was still the size of an egg and the stitches prickled if he moved on the pillow, but he couldn't sleep on his side. That hurt, too. In fact, his whole body ached, but he figured getting run over by a car was a pretty good excuse. All in all, that was kind of way more serious than meeting your father in an alley.

**oOoOoOo**


	6. Chapter 6

**oOoOoOo**

Mary sat at the kitchen table, a cup of very black coffee near her elbow as she held up her head with her hands. She had not slept, which was not surprising, but her exhaustion was tugging on her despite knowing her that her boys were close. She shook her head and started reading the fax pages Bobby had provided her.

"So they just appeared a few days later in the morning on the steps of a firehouse in Illinois?" she shook her head. "Where were they before that and why didn't any of the scrying work?"

Bobby shrugged. Those were mysteries to him as well. As a test, once he knew the boys were at Jim Murphy's in Blue Earth, MN and were verified as humans, he tried scrying again. No luck. Neither Winchester boy showed up still on his map. John was confirming they were his boys (Sam's birthmark on the back of his elbow was there and Dean apparently admitted he did recognize John). That plus the reports Bobby got faxed seemed to confirm that they were the missing children. That just added another bucket of questions on why he couldn't find them using all his knowledge.

He was able to find anything and anyone living when he had the right tools and spell—and he certainly thought he did for the Winchester boys. The first time he searched (in the March of '84), he thought that left only one option: The boys were dead. Now, he was thinking something equally as sinister was afoot. Hard not to think that, Bobby reasoned. What good could come of taking two babies from their parents and hiding them for 10 years?

"Look, Mary, there's some heavy duty mojo at work," he replied. "It's the only other possibility. Someone put the big whammy on—even to the point that none of the officials were able to make the connection to your missing kids in the federal database. Some of it, I can see as just incompetence and lack of effort. Your oldest only gave them first names. Chalk that up to him being scared when the cops and social works interviewed him, I guess."

"No, he knew Dean full name and his brother's as well as mine and John's," Mary said, rubbing the knots in her neck. "In fact, I was working with him on how to spell all our names. I made him spell his for me every night before I put him in bed. The night they disappeared, I put him to bed early because he was coming down with a cold. But even groggy on the cold medicine I know he could have done it."

She always regretted giving the medicine to him. She wondered for years if that dose was the difference between Dean waking up and screaming as a stranger entered his room and her boys being carried unconscious from the house without protest.

"So no names and incompetent civil servants?" she remarked. "What about this part here, when they asked Dean how he got to the firehouse?"

"Yeah, he just says some man he called Gabriel brought them," Bobby shrugged. "And he only said it once. When they asked the kid a few days later, he claimed not to remember at all. You didn't know anyone named Gabriel did you?" Mary shook her head. "Well, that jives with what your boy told everyone. First interview, the only time the boy mentions him, Dean said he wasn't a friend or a relative or a neighbor. Just that 'Gabriel brought us' and 'they traveled by light' whatever that meant. Caseworker theorized he might just be a good Samaritan who found them and dropped them off like that. To me, that's a load of crap. What kind of good Samaritan leaves two little boys on the steps of a firehouse at 5 a.m. on a November morning? It also don't explain how they got seven hours from your house without a car bringing them. Or, so your son said."

"He was a little boy and scared—plus he was out like a light from the meds," Mary said and held back a shuddering breath. "They were taken on the 31st and didn't show up at the firehouse until November 2nd. I don't know what to think. And right now, I kind of don't care. I can hardly believe they're both alive. Bobby, my babies are alive."

She looked at him with wide eyes that looked brighter and more alive than he had ever seen them. He hadn't known Mary or her parents when she first lived in the hunting life. Never even heard of the Campbell's actually, but Hunter's Quarterly didn't exactly get published often or accurately. When she arrived on his doorstep with Ellen Harvelle in the early spring of 1984 looking for help with a spell to find the missing boys, he felt for her. And not just because she'd lost her kids. No, Mary got out of the life and then got dragged back in. Bobby didn't know what she would do now that the little ones were heading their way, but he thought it wise to let her know it wasn't as if the clock had stopped for them.

"Just keep in mind they ain't the boys you lost," Bobby offered. She shot him a questioning look. "The youngest, Sammy, ain't a baby no more, and Dean is a teenager, a pretty mouthy, sullen one if what Rufus said is accurate. Just keep in mind that they've done a lot of growing up since you saw them last. You got to get to know them for who they are now, Mary."

She nodded. She didn't care who they were; they were alive, and they were coming back to her. Anything else was an unimportant detail at that moment. John seemed hesitant to talk about them. She didn't know what that meant. She wondered how their reunion had gone the night before. As John had not called to say the trip to South Dakota was off, she hoped it meant things went well. All she knew for certain was that Ellen phoned at 7 a.m. to say the boys were with John and Jim heading to Bobby's. Mary looked at the clock as the hand approached 9 a.m. Her family, she noted with a swooping feeling in her stomach, should be nearly back to her.

As if on cue, the gravel in the driveway scrunched and the loud, throaty growl of the old Chevy could be heard making its way to the house. Mary stood, nervously, and looked at her reflection in the dirty window pane. She wiped her red-rimmed eyes and ran her hands through her tangled hair. She turned a pale face to Bobby, who rolled his eyes as if to say kids don't care if you look pretty. Rather than comment on that, she hurried out the door and down the steps.

The car halted and Jim got out first. He nodded sedately to Mary. John appeared next from behind the wheel as the pastor opened the rear passenger door. A small boy peaked out into the bright sunshine and stepped hesitantly from the car. Mary placed a trembling hand over her mouth.

"Sammy?" Mary gasped as she moved toward him. The boy froze as he stared back at her. "Oh my god. Look at you. You got so big."

She paused in her advance at the sight of him shivering. She ached to touch him, to scoop him into her arms and hold him and kiss his cheeks. But Bobby's advice was sounding loudly in her head. _Let him move first. _He might be her beloved baby boy, but she was a strange lady he'd never met.

"H-hello," Sam said cautiously looking at her with wide and bewildered eyes.

"Hello," Mary answered in a strained voice. "It's so good to see you again, Sammy."

"It's Sam," a new voice, offering a distrusting and flat tone, joined the discussion from the other side of the car.

The green eyes that shot across the top of the car at Mary were not the sweet and giggling eyes of her toddler any more. The color was right. The shape was right. It was the feeling that was wrong. Those eyes were angry and suspicious.

"Only I can call him Sammy," Dean continued.

"And I don't even like it when he does it," Sam offered helpfully with a shy shrug.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean said.

The younger boy looked at his big brother defiantly but obeyed as they stared pointedly at each other. They traded looks that spoke volumes of silent conversation each understood: _Can I trust her?_ No, you don't know her. _You don't trust her?_ I don't trust anyone. _What should I do now?_ Be careful. _Should I be scared?_ Don't worry; I'm here.

"Okay," Mary relented clasping her hands together as her limbs and heart ached not being permitted to hug the child. "Sam, it is." She looked across the space into the face of her first-born. "And you're Dean."

"Blond and a genius," Dean remarked. "Awesome gene pool we've got here, Sammy."

"Dean," the little boy gasped.

Mary took her oldest son's words stoically. They hurt, yes, but no more so than the cold look in his eyes. Her once happy and sweet little boy was replaced by a weary, surly and distrusting teenager. He reminded her of a hurt animal baring its teeth in warning.

"Maybe we should all go inside," John said.

Dean looked up at the house and raised his eyebrows. He looked at John, an expression the elder Winchester was learning meant the boy was just going to disagree with him no matter what.

"Inside?" Dean scoffed. "Don't we need vaccinations first? I'm due for a Tetanus booster. I'm not sure going in there is wise without it."

The door to the house banged shut as the bearded hunter stepped out clenching a toothpick in his teeth as he surveyed his house guests.

"If you prefer heat stroke by standing here in the sun all day, by all means," Bobby offered leaning on the railing of the porch.

He met Dean's eyes with a stern gaze of his own. The boy glared at him but didn't have the strength of decades of disappointment in others behind it. After a moment, the younger contestant in the staring contest cut his eyes away, but his mouth wasn't finished yet.

"And who the hell are you?" Dean asked, looking back at Bobby after a moment. "Our long-lost, crazy, half-wit uncle?"

Mary tossed a questioning look at John, who gave a miniscule shake of his head, delaying the discussion for another time. Oblivious to the parental visual chat, Bobby fixed his interest on the teenager.

"Ain't you a bit young to be working toward a degree in smartass?" Bobby asked.

"Oh, I am ready for graduate school, old man," Dean replied.

"Dean, this is Bobby," Mary offered trying to ignore the war of staring going on between them. "He's a friend of the family."

Dean cast a disapproving eye at the house again.

"Whose family?" he wondered. "The Addams'. Should I look for a severed hand running around doing chores? Where's your walking corpse to play the piano, Uncle Fester?"

"It's a harpsichord actually," Bobby announced. "And I just sent it out to have it tuned. By the way, Fester is the bald one. I'm more like Gomez here." He then turned to Mary and muttered abrasively as he walked away. "Oh yeah, I like that one already. Real charmer. _Graduate school_, my ass. I'll show you Uncle Fester you little…"

"Okay, so, inside with everyone, alright?" Mary offered brightly. "We're going to have breakfast. Who's hungry?"

**oOoOoOo**

Breakfast as an odd and stilted affair. Mary, nervous and spending more time looking over her shoulder at the two boys sitting stiffly in the library, burned the eggs and mangled the pancakes. Bobby stepped in before she committed any such horror to the bacon. The food, when it was served, became the main topic of discussion. Dean had nothing to say beyond claiming he was allergic to eggs. John called him on the lie and insisted he eat some of them. Dean glared back and purposefully left all of them in the corner of his plate untouched.

Sam wasn't as picky. A warm breakfast was a rarity for he and his brother. He cleaned his plate but refused a second helping of anything because Dean didn't. Which seemed odd because in Sam's experience anytime they were able to get seconds of anything, Dean always took it (unless it was broccoli).

Mary and John tried several times to start a conversation, but each time they halted themselves. Every question was something their faces said they desperately wanted to know, but their voices shook like they were afraid to pursue. Whether it was of the answers or how either boy would react while answering was unclear.

Eventually, even Bobby found the politeness too much torture to continue.

"Dean, why don't you and Sam go upstairs," he said. "There's a room on the left at the top. It's got two beds. That's where you'll stay. In a bit, we'll take you into town to get some clothes and a few other things."

Dean nodded, putting a guiding hand on Sam's shoulder, ushering him out of the room. The teenager met Bobby's eye and briefly nodded to him, appreciating the escape opportunity.

The boys located the room and conducted the routine investigation of the closet, the door and the window. Dean then closed the door and dropped onto the bed wearily.

"Okay, so what happens now?" Sam asked his brother.

"I don't know," Dean replied.

"What do you mean you don't know"?" Sam demanded. "Dean, you always know."

"Well, today I don't," Dean growled and massaged his ribs. "I got hit by a car the other day, Sam. Give me a break, okay?"

He said it sharper than he meant. Sam hung his head. The lady, Ellen, told him Dean got bumped by a car but wasn't hurt. Sam knew that wasn't true as soon as he saw Dean that morning. He was hurt and pretending he wasn't. Sam had seen it before, but he knew better than to let Dean know he knew it. It only made Dean grouchier. Still, Sam worried about Dean. He needed his older brother. Parents or not, Dean was the one he knew he could always count on. Making sure he was okay was something Sam felt he needed to do.

"You said you weren't hurt," Sam remarked, using Dean's own words, knowing this was the easiest way to avoid a fight with him. Sure, his big brother would still argue with him, but he couldn't get too mad because Sam was just repeating what Dean told him.

"I wasn't," Dean snarled but kept his voice low and his eyes focused on the wall. "I'm fine."

As he sensed his little brother's anxiety, Dean sighed and shrugged slowly. Sam had busted him. The thing to do was just not make it seem like he felt as bad as he did. The kid was far from stupid, but there was no point in worrying over a little bump on his head when they had greater problems downstairs in the form of two people looking to turn their lives into Leave It To Beaver time. And it wasn't lying or deceitful to make Sam believe Dean was doing okay. The doctor in Chicago said the only place he was hit in the accident was the small bump on his head, but his side was killing him. If he could just get a few minutes of sleep maybe it would all make more sense and he would feel better.

"Good," Sam nodded. "So what about… them? They said they're our parents, our real parents, right? You're sure?"

Dean was silent for a few moments as he chew his lip. He'd seen the pictures John and that reverend showed him. Those were real; he recognized his face and Sammy's. The people standing next to him were John and Mary. John described their old house and Dean's bedroom in it. He had a birth certificate for both he and Sammy. He had newspaper clippings about a child abduction on Halloween all those years ago. Deep in the cobwebs of Dean's memory, the man's face was familiar, as was the woman's.

"Yeah," he nodded. "They are. I remember them, a little. Doesn't explain why they didn't go to the police about finding us. They reported us kidnapped, so why did they send in the Mission Impossible team to bring us here?"

"Pastor Jim said the man who took us is still out there," Sam replied and looked suspiciously out the window, hiding behind the curtain as he did. "What if he comes after us again?"

Dean looked at his little brother with a flat but reassuring stare.

"I'm not letting anyone take you, Sam," he said. "I'll watch out for you—just like always."

"I know," Sam nodded and smiled sheepishly. "But… what happens now?"

"They said we'll stay here for a while," Dean replied then sighed and fell back on the bed. "Apparently, they're homeless and just mooch off their down and out friends. Sorry, Sammy, guess that picket fence and dog are still a dream."

"Dean," Sam scoffed. "Come on. Can't you try to be nice?"

"Fine, maybe they'll buy a house," Dean offered. "With the looks of the car John has, they don't have a lot of money or… jobs. So, get ready for a good old, and I mean old literally there, double-wide that smells like a cat farm. How's that for home, Sammy? A trailer in Kansas. You liked the Wizard of Oz, right? Maybe we'll get to move a lot during tornado season. One week, the house is on this side of the road, the next week it's on the other side..."

Sam laughed but then scowled as he decided the joke was kind of in bad taste so it wasn't all that humorous. He scolded his brother for his insensitive words.

"Dean, that's not funny," Sam chided.

As Sam's smile faded, he looked scared. Whether it was the thought of a tornado relocating their house or the thought they wouldn't have a home at all, Dean did not know. He just knew his baby brother was getting anxious again.

"Don't worry, Sammy," he replied as he nudged the kid's leg lightly with his foot for reassurance. "A few more years and I'll get us some place better. We've made it this long with nothing great. We can last a little while longer."

**oOoOoOo**

As desperately anticipated reunions went, the day was stressful and unrewarding. Neither John nor Mary felt the boys were happy to be with them or eager to have been found. They were standoffish, particularly Dean and Sam followed his lead. John could see the anguish in Mary's eyes all day. Once the boys turned in for the night, he joined her in the kitchen.

"So," John said resting on the counter by Mary who stood over the sinking doing absolutely nothing, "how are you doing?"

She looked at him with her red-rimmed eyes and shrugged. She was elated, or thought she should be. Her babies were back. They were healthy and did not appear to be seriously harmed, but they were distant—Dean especially. He looked at her with an accusing stare, like she had taken something from him or punished him unjustly. Their meals were stilted affairs. Both boys were desperately thin. Sam shoveled food into his mouth like he hadn't eaten in days. Dean pushed his food around his plate. She was willing to bet this was not typical for him from the way his little brother stared at him.

He was recovering from his mild concussion, she reminded herself. That was easier to accept than to wonder if he feared she was trying to poison or drug him with the food. Neither boy spoke much despite Mary's attempt to speak with them. Sam looked at her and mumbled his short responses. Dean only answered with curt nods or one word answers, when he bothered to speak at all. John maintained a composure throughout that Mary was unaware he possessed. She could see him grinding his teeth at Dean's apparent rudeness but marveled at the way her husband resisted the ingrained Marine requirement for rules, order and proper behavior.

"I can't complain," she replied as she pushed her hair out of her face again.

"I know," John said understandingly. "Not how you pictured it. They're still in a kind of shock."

"Should we find someone to talk to them?" she wondered. "We can't afford anyone professional, but Jim counsels people all the time."

"I don't know," John sighed. "Sam might be okay with that, but Dean's… On top of everything going on, he's a teenager. I think they just need some stability and routine. They've been away for so long, living in… well, places not much different from Bobby's, but without anyone who seemed to care about them. I think the more structure they…"

"They aren't in the Corps," she said quickly.

John's personal discipline and the honor he radiated were what Mary noticed first about him when they met. He was proper and polite and a gentleman in every way. It made him much more mature than so many of the others their age. Some came back from the war more wild or angry even. Not John. He took his time in Vietnam in stride, and it seemed to give him a unique view of life, an appreciation for the peace of living in a town that was not surrounded by deadly foes. That combination of security and compassion appealed to her and attracted her. Later, when his rigid determination that their sons could be found if they just looked harder seemed to translate to blame in his eyes pointed at her. He did not understand that she was looking; she just wasn't using the ineffective methods of police. It was then that the unyielding jarhead side of his personality took over and drove a wedge between them.

John saw the old hurt and anger flare in her light eyes. It hurt him to see it pointed his way yet again. So he bit back a retort. Jim warned him about letting his mouth get away from him right now. He and Mary had plenty of issues of their own they needed to work through, but their boys needed to come first.

"Okay, so maybe we just let them get used to us for now and play it by ear," John offered. "Are you… staying or do you have a job somewhere?"

She turned a sharp and sour look on him. How he could think she would leave now that her sons had been found shocked her. She wheeled to face him as she pointed at his chest. This, she realized, was a continuation of his decade old gripe that she abandoned their marriage and the search for their sons to live like a mercenary. The day she moved out they had a screaming match like no fight she'd ever had before. She feared it would shatter the window panes in their house. It was a hard day from the moment they woke up for it should have seen the family celebrating Dean's fifth birthday. Instead, what remained of their marriage was snuffed out like the birthday candles they never got to light.

Their life as Mr. and Mrs. Winchester fell apart quickly after that. Six months later, John sold their house because he couldn't afford to make the payments since he sold his half of the garage to his business partner, Mike Guenther. He was spending more of his time acting as detective searching for their sons than working on car repair. Another six months down the road, Mary finally met with him and showed him the truth about what lived in the shadows. She did so to help him understand why she didn't think his searches would find their sons. He was livid with her, once the shock wore off. He believed she was not trying to find their sons but was instead taking on some revenge crusade after having given the boys up for dead. The look in his eyes there in Bobby's kitchen as he asked her if she was sticking around for their sons trampled on that sore spot all over again.

"Staying?" she snapped. "You think I'm just going to take off?"

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time," John countered.

"I didn't leave because I wanted to," she said, her voice rising. "I did because I had to!"

"Had to?" John barked. "Like the way you had to keep your family history from me? That kind of had to? See, where I come from, that's a choice, Mary!"

"Oh, and you took the truth so well, it's no wonder I didn't tell you!" she replied, slamming her hands angrily on the sink then turned to face him fully when she caught sight of someone else in her peripheral vision.

"So that adoring family act you tried to sell us is a front," Dean remarked flatly from the doorway. His eyes were hard and looking at both of them with cold disappointment. "Good to know you're both bullshit artists."

He leaned on the doorframe with his arms folded tightly in front of him.

"Dean?" Mary turned quickly and softened her expression. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry you had to hear that. Did you need something?"

"To not be called sweetheart for starters," he replied. "Also to tell you that your yelling can be heard upstairs. If you two want to go all WWF on each other, that's your business, but you're scaring Sam so shut up or take it outside, would ya?"

Mary blanched in shame. She looked cautiously at John then started for the stairs, but Dean stepped in front of her. He put his hands up and took a step back, keeping a safe distance from her as he shook his head.

"Just stop yelling or go somewhere else to do it," Dean said. "Sam will be fine if you keep it down."

Mary froze in place as he gave her a firm and commanding stare. He turned around and walked back up the stairs. She followed, at a distance, to the foot of the staircase then heard the definite catch of the latch on the door to the room the boys were staying in.

She turned and looked at John with a hurt and puzzled expression.

"I know it's too early to even think this, but it feels like we may only get one of our sons back," John noted sadly.

"He's just confused and angry," she defended.

"No, he functions independently of any authority and doesn't seem to have the least interest in changing that," John corrected her. "He's also confused and angry, but for being just 14, he doesn't seem to have any child left in him."

Mary reluctantly nodded. She knew it was too soon to be making any judgments on her sons' personalities and temperaments, but she had to agree with John on his assessment. Dean might look his age (or possibly a bit younger) but he certainly acted much older. He wore a heavy mantel of responsibility that gave his spirit a halo of world weariness. According to the reports Bobby got from their case files in Illinois, Dean was considered aloof and unsocial. He did not seem to have friends as any time not spent in a classroom was spent keeping an eye on his brother. His teachers found him disengaged in classes, but he did his homework most of the time and usually passed his tests. They all reported the same thing: great potential but no effort put into doing more than he was required. His grades were fair, but all seemed to feel he could do much better.

There were a few discipline reports, lack of respect for school and casework authorities along with a few physical scuffles with others in the group homes. One apparently sent him to juvenile court after a savage fight with a foster brother. He did not end up with a conviction as he convinced the judge he was justified because the foster brother had apparently threatened Sam and tried to burn him with matches. A subsequent investigation revealed this was an ongoing problem with that foster family so Dean's punishment was to be confined to their new home when he wasn't at school. A remote monitoring device was used for eight weeks to insure this then discharged as no further problems occurred.

John looked over at the file sitting on the kitchen table, the same details running through his mind as we his wife's. There was never any mention of Dean harming his brother, but John was worried about Sammy's dependence on Dean. He seemed to look to him for permission and approval. They were just four years difference in age, but it seemed like so much more. John worried about how precisely his older son kept that level of control over their youngest.

"I think we should keep an eye on him when he's with Sammy," John said and hating himself for uttering the words. "I don't know that he would hurt him, but if Dean's as angry as it seems, he could lash out. Unlike Dean, Sammy is still a kid. I can see he's got a million questions for us, but he doesn't seem to be asking them. I'm worried that's because Dean won't let him."

Mary shrugged. She didn't know what to think. She saw the boys' reliance on each other as a survival technique. She and John still did not know much about how and where their sons had lived. Bobby was only able to pull the most recent casework documents and some school reports. She did not want to add to her husband's worries (and apparent friction) with Dean, but she saw it more as the results of combat. Sam was younger and needed someone to watch out for him. Absent reliable parents, Dean seemed to have taken on that role. Without any other experience to temper that, Sam took to it and it became part of who he was. She could sense independence in her youngest and did not feel it was being stifled by his brother. Rather, to her, it seemed Sammy (no, correction, Sam) was simply wary and did a check with his brother, the only constant thing in his life, before saying or doing anything when they were in unknown territory. A stranger's house, surrounded by people they did not know but who claimed they were family, certainly met her definition of unknown territory for a little boy.

John, she suspected, was just hurt that Dean did not recognize him at first and then accused him of being first a pedophile and next for being at fault for the lost years of their lives. The reason that hit John so keenly was that he did blame himself for their disappearance, just as Mary blamed herself. She just wasn't going to let the teenager push her buttons with his defense mechanisms and use her own anxiety to manipulate the situation, which Bobby told her he was certain Dean could do (and in fact was doing).

Her husband didn't see that. Life for him was more black and white. Their son swore; John said stop; the boy answered with 'fuck off.' Ergo, the boy was unruly. Their son would not call them Mom and Dad; John ordered him to stop calling them by their first names; Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes and said 'whatever, John.' Ergo, the boy was disrespectful. John always wanted his sons back. He just wasn't prepared to get them back at a drastically different stage of their lives. In his memory (as in Mary's), Dean was a kind and smiling little boy who did whatever his parents told him with a minimal amount of resistance. He did throw tantrums, but those were always solved with a nap. There was not an aggressive or offense bone in the child. The teenager however…

Mary could see the tension building between their oldest and her husband. Bobby noted it too, which was why he offered his opinion to her (knowing John would not listen). The more experienced hunter was showing an unexpected concern for the boys, and Dean in particular. In other circumstances, this would concern her as the only things that got Bobby's focus were usually fanged and deadly, but she felt another set of observant eyes and ears were not a bad thing in this situation.

Suddenly, as if confirming her darkest worries about her husband and oldest son's relationship, John offered a question that sent her stomach streaking through the floor as it fell with anxiety.

"Any of your occult tests you think we should run on him to make sure he's really our son?" John wondered.

As he asked, he felt certain his title of father should be revoked, but he felt he had to ask it. He had spent too many years not responsible for his children. Any threat, from within or outside the family, needed to be scrutinized. John had never met a demon before, but from the stories other hunters told, his son's attitude and resistance to see his parents as authorities wreaked of something hellish.

Mary cut her eyes at John dangerously. She reminded him tartly that he was the one just minutes ago attributing Dean's surly behavior to a combination of the upheavals in his life and his status as a teenager.

"I know, I know," John shrugged wearily. "It's just we don't know enough yet about them, and then there was this."

He pulled the photo from his pocket, the fated image that appeared in his package from Jenkins in Chicago, the one that led him to look for Sam. The only problem was, the image was no longer that of the boy with the sad hazel eyes.

"I see a brick building and two women walking to a car," Mary shrugged. "Who are they, and what's this photo got to do with anything?"

John gave her a worried look as he explained.

"That's just it," he replied. "I don't know. That is the photo I took in Chicago outside that school. Only, when I looked at it the first time, it was a picture of Sammy. Now…"

"Well, you obviously just mixed up the photos," Mary shrugged. "You put the wrong one in your pocket."

"I didn't," John argued. "I left the whole stack of them at Jim's except the photo of Sammy. I kept it in my pocket. Hell, I even looked at it this morning when I woke up and put it back in my pocket. Then, just after lunch, Bobby asked to see it so I took it out and now it's this."

"How is that possible?" Mary asked.

"My question exactly," he said. "You're the expert in this freaky crap. It's like the photo of Sammy was never there. Except I saw it—obviously—or how else would I have known to start asking around for him?"

There was a dark question lurking behind John's eyes. Mary could read it as clearly as she could see the image of the lunch ladies was not an up close picture of her baby boy. Her own expression beckoned John to say what was on his mind.

"So what if this wasn't just simple luck that helped us find the boys?" he wondered. "I'm worried that something else could be going on here."

Mary nodded slowly, but for the life of her she could not think of what it might be.

**oOoOoOo**


	7. Chapter 7

**oOoOoOo**

Another afternoon found the house forcefully quiet. To Sam and Dean that meant one thing: the adults where whispering.

Dean wasn't overly curious what they were whispering about. To him, it was pretty obvious. They had two kids in the house who weren't there a week earlier. There was a ton of crap they needed to discuss and figure out. What they would decide, that's what concerned Dean. Sam, however, was more of an optimist. His head was filling with dreams and each scrap of intel he gathered being around John and Mary only made him grow more excited.

"I heard them talking about a house," Sam said eagerly. "Do you think that means we're getting our own home?"

"I don't know," Dean said sullenly. He was tired and cranky and the aches and chills in him wouldn't stop. His throat felt raw still, and all he wanted to do was sleep. "I guess I kind of hope we stay in this hellhole for a while longer."

"Why?" Sam asked, but he suspected he knew.

Dean liked talking to Bobby. The older man didn't always seem to say nice things to Dean, but he reminded Sam a bit of the rabbi, a man they knew in Chicago. No one ever sought out the rabbi to talk to him except Dean. He, too, was kind of grouchy when he talked to Dean, but his brother never seemed to mind. Plus, he taught Dean a lot of pretty cool things, like a weird form of karate and how to open locked doors with paperclips.

"Just tired of moving around, that's all," Dean sighed as he lay back on the bed. "Besides, I'm still not sure they've decide what to do with us."

Dean heard the words come out of his mouth and wished they hadn't. He was tired, too tired, to play question and answer time with Sam. He could feel his little brother's hard and worried stare on him.

"I don't think they're going to cut us up into little parts and eat us," Dean said, trying to make a joke to deflect his baby brother's concern.

"You mean you think they don't like you," Sam surmised.

Not that he was surprised. A lot of adults didn't like Dean. They had always been interested in Sam. More than a few wanted to adopt him, but they were never all that keen on both boys. Some said Dean was too old to bond with a family; others said he was too difficult. Some just wanted only one, but the state rules wouldn't allow them to break up the boys.

"What's not to like?" Dean yawned, but Sam heard the admission in his tone.

"We're a family, Dean," Sam insisted. "We're supposed to go home and… and… live there, together. All of us."

How Dean wished Sam would stop talking, stop asking questions, stop bothering him, for just five minutes so he could get a quick nap.

"Then why didn't we go there first?" Dean asked grumbled. "No, they're not sure what we do next, Sam."

"They seem happy to see us," he offered, hopping onto the bed beside his brother. "That's a good thing, isn't it?"

"Maybe," Dean replied. "If it lasts."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, flopping backward, again mimicking his brother's relaxed posture.

Dean turned his head and looked into his little brother's expectant face. He didn't look afraid or worried. He was a bit anxious about this sudden turn of events, but Dean saw the light in the kid's eyes when John said he was their father. He heard the breathy anticipation (the sound everyone else took for fear) when Sam first looked at Mary and said hello.

Sam wanted a normal family with a real home and maybe a dog. Dean knew his little brother wrote a pathetic letter to Santa every year asking for just that. Dean vowed, for as long as he could remember, that would get that for Sam. Somehow. First, he thought adoption was the answer. Surely someone would take them into their home and give them what the kid wanted.

Only, that never happened. No one wanted two stray kids. Sam was cute and little and just what they wanted in a little boy. But the state had rules. Two boys, brothers, equals joint adoption unless a judge found cause to separate them. Dean was glad for that law, made sure to read it once he was able to find it in a book so that he would know it and understand it. It kept him and his brother together, but it also kept Sam from getting what he wanted and needed, a real family. Sure, Dean was his brother, but the kid deserved more, better, than just him.

Dean didn't try to sabotage any visits from people who were looking to adopt. He legitimately wanted the people to take a liking to them so he could get Sam out of the group homes and the foster homes. But that just never happened. They would smile and coo over Sam. They were polite, generally, to Dean, but he knew by the time he was six what they were thinking: Damaged. He'd been in the system too long. Like a carton of spoiled milk, no one wanted to take him home. Eventually, Sam expired on the shelf too, thanks to the brother no social worker could sell to prospective parents.

Now, Dean knew why. Their actual parents were still out there.

The precise reasons behind why they were taken and never found were not fully explained yet. Dean wondered if maybe John and Mary weren't sure either. That level of cluelessness was not encouraging in his mind. Still, at first glance, they didn't seem too horrible. Then again, he reasoned, they were still in the happy stages of finding their long lost kids again. What they would be like once the surprise and newness wore off was a looming question.

"Don't worry about it, Sam," Dean said, his eyes closing rather than stare at the boring ceiling again.

"Think we'll get our own rooms?" Sam asked excitedly. "If we do, I want orange walls."

"Orange?" Dean asked. "Why?"

"'Cause it's different," Sam smiled. "And it would be like a summer sunset, even in the winter."

"Freak," Dean scoffed.

"Am not," he said crossly as his face screwed up in the expected pout.

Dean jutted his lip out to mock the expression, sending Sam into a predictable fit of flying fists. They tumbled quickly off the bed as the wrestling match escalated into an in-the-room cage match with Sam, all sourness over the name calling forgotten, leaping off the bed to tackle his older brother. Dean yelped in a quick shot of pain as they crashed to the floor. The thunderous sounds filled the house and sent John tearing up the stairs and throwing the door open.

"What the hell is going on in here?" he shouted, looking around for an intruder or something equally as dangerous.

"Nothing," they answered in tandem as they picked apart their tangle of limbs and stood up.

"Sounds like a lot more than nothing," John said, willing his heart to quiet down as his adrenaline pumped by the bucketful into his blood stream.

"We were just messing around," Dean shrugged, massaging a dull pain that shot through his left side. In that instant, Sam leaned close to him under John's stern gaze.

"You should be more careful," John said then looked carefully at Sam. "Sam, are you bleeding?"

The man's expression grew concerned, and he knelt down in front of Sam to rub his thumb gently on the boy's bottom lip. The red smear was evident. Sam sucked the flesh into his mouth and shrugged. It didn't hurt. He didn't even feel it when it happened. He was about to say so when he felt Dean squeeze his shoulder slightly, transmitting the unspoken signal to step away from him. Sam obeyed and looked at his brother warily.

"What the hell did you do?" John demanded of Dean.

Dean's response was simply a stony stare.

John caught Sam's fearful expression and his eyes darkened. To John, it looked as though Sam was getting a nonverbal order to shut his mouth. Dean was older and stronger than Sam. The boy had a fascination with Dean that at first John found touching, but now he was beginning to worry about. Anytime he or Mary spoke to Sam, their youngest looked to Dean—as if seeking permission to listen or respond. It was as if Dean was a warden and Sam his prisoner.

Silent messages between the boys was one thing. Intimidating his younger brother to cover up an injury was the last straw for John.

"Outside," he said crossly to Dean. "Now."

Sam opened his mouth to speak but caught a quick hand signal from Dean to be quiet. Sam slouched then sat on the bed as John gripped Dean's arm and pulled him roughly into the hallway, closing the door behind them. Sam moved quietly to the hinge area and pressed his ear against it to listen.

"What the hell was going on in there?" John asked. "And don't tell me '_nothing_.'"

Sam mouthed the word 'no' and shook his head. He knew precisely what Dean would do when pressed like this. Sam folded his hands the way the priests at the home taught him and started quietly praying for someone to step in or say something that would fix what was about to happen.

Outside, Dean met John's eyes with a challenging gaze. After a moment, he shrugged.

"Okay then," Dean answered. "How 'bout: None of your damn business."

"What was that?" John asked, his temper spiking with the adrenaline and the attitude he was facing.

"I said none of your damn business, John," Dean replied. "I don't think I stuttered."

"What did I tell you about respect?" he asked hotly.

"That you seem to think you've got a god-given right to it because you were a Marine, or at least that's what I got out of your little crap speeches so far," Dean nodded as he spoke in an antagonizing tone. "You really need more persuasive material."

"I've had it with your backtalk, you know that?" John replied in frustration.

The kid knew every one of his buttons—which had hair triggers at the moment since no one in the place seemed to be sleeping between the stress of the situation and the soaring 90 degree heat.

"I'm getting that, yeah," Dean replied smugly. "Okay, how about this, John: It's none of your damn business, sir. Does that work for you? Think it over and get back to me."

Sam next heard Dean's feet scuff on the floor, signaling to his little brother he was drawing the angry man away from Sam, which he knew was Dean's goal from the start of this. Dean did not like angry or aggressive adults near Sam and would draw their fire whenever possible to put distance between his baby brother and whoever he saw as a threat to the kid. Sam appreciated it and never liked when it happened. He was getting bigger and could take care of himself. He didn't like that Dean still treated him like he was a baby.

But what he didn't like even more was what happened to Dean quite often when he did this. Tears began to dribble down Sam's cheeks as he prayed harder that even if someone didn't come to stop this that John would not be so angry with Dean that he would teach him one of those lessons they learned in foster care, the kind that left red marks and bruises on Dean that he would pretend didn't hurt even though it was so apparent to Sam that they did.

"Where do you think you're going?" John demanded.

"Looks like this way," Dean offered and his feet could be heard on the stair treads. John's quickly followed.

"I'm not done talking to you," John said loudly.

"But I am done listening," Dean replied as he breezed through the kitchen toward the door. "Seems like this little chat is over."

"No, it's not," John insisted following fast on his heels. "Stop right there."

"Make me," Dean tossed over his shoulder.

Dean was amazed when he made it out of the house without being grabbed. He could practically hear John grinding his teeth. Dean took the steps two at a time and walked hurriedly into the maze of crushed cars that littered the backyard.

"What the hell was that?" Mary charged out of the living room and glared at her son's departing back.

"They were fighting, I guess," John said. "Sam's lip got split open, and Dean…. I don't know. I don't know if Sam was afraid of him or trying to be brave in front of me. They weren't answering my questions, that's for certain. And one thing we are certainly nipping in the bud is that kid's mouth."

"A Marine virtuous about his language?" she remarked. "That's a first. Where is Sam? How bad is his lip?"

"Fine, I guess," John sighed as he rubbed his neck and watched his older son scuff his feet across the yard. "He didn't seem to realize he was even bleeding. It's not really that bad."

"So why were you yelling?" she asked.

"I heard a crash and I went in and…," John began hotly. "Look, they were piled up on the floor and when Sam stood up I could see blood in his mouth."

Mary sighed and walked to the stairs. She called nicely, sweetly even, to her baby, asking him to come downstairs. For several long moments, there was no movement. She called again and the door opened hesitantly. Sam slowly, reluctantly came down the stairs. His lip, slightly puffy with a tiny crack in it, was evident but not concerning.

"Do you need some ice for that, sweetheart?" Mary asked. Sam shook his head.

"Where's Dean?" he asked.

"He's outside cooling off," John said. "You don't have to be afraid of him."

"I'm not," Sam said sharply. "Where did he go?"

John shrugged. The boy had disappeared behind one of the car towers. His precise location wasn't important to this discussion. Bobby was out there as well. He would keep an eye on the teen.

"I need to find him," Sam said moving toward the door.

Mary caught his arm and gently pulled him to her.

"Just leave Dean be for now," she said kindly. "Everybody needs to take a breath and have some quiet time."

Sam looked hard at John. He liked him, he thought. John hugged him like he meant it. He smiled at Sam like he was glad to see him. He looked at Sam like… well, unlike anyone Sam had ever met, except maybe Dean. It was like Sam had just done something great and was getting applause even though he didn't do anything at all. He could just be standing there, and John would look at him like he won a spelling bee or scored a goal in the game. No one ever looked at him like that, other than Dean. Sam liked it, and he wanted to like John even more. He even found himself wanting to call him Dad, but he was worried how Dean would feel about that.

Sam didn't see John giving those same looks to Dean, not always. He looked mad when he came in their room just now, and the way he led Dean into the hall scared Sam. Dean didn't seem scared, but Dean never seemed scared. In fact, Sam had learned that there were times when Dean didn't look afraid, but it would turn out that he was actually very scared in those moments. Sam wondered if this was one of those times.

"I want to see Dean," Sam insisted.

"Not right now, baby," Mary said petting his head and looking at him warmly.

Mary's eyes were softer and lighter than John's. They were a lot like Dean's in fact. She smiled with them, just like Dean could. Sam liked her, too. She was a lot like what he thought a mom should be. She touched your face and talked softly and made pancakes. She listened without interrupting and nodded when Sam spoke so he knew she was listening. She had a lot of tears in her eyes, but they didn't look like sad tears. She liked to hug, too. Hers were not as tight as John's, but hers lasted longer and she rocked a bit when she did it. Sam didn't like nicknames much—he wasn't a baby after all—but he didn't mind when she called him 'baby' or 'sweetie' or 'sweetheart.' He even liked the way it sounded when she slipped and called him Sammy. Her voice was kind and sweet when she did that, and it made Sam want to smile, blush even.

Dean said they were their mom and dad, and Sam believed him. It made him happy in a way he had never been before to know them. Parents meant a family, and a family meant a home. A real home. Sam wanted those for as long as he wanted anything. Dean had promised, since Sam's earliest memories, that he would get those for Sam someday. Now, someday had arrived, except it didn't feel as warm and easy as Sam hoped.

Dean wasn't happy. Dean was grouchy and worried and was acting like he wanted to fight with everyone or just curl up in bed and sleep all the time. Over the last few days, Sam noticed that his big brother didn't smile as much as he used to. In fact, the only times he did were when Bobby would speak. Bobby sort of growled when he talked and his expressions weren't all that friendly, but Dean didn't mind him and had started sitting beside him at the table and following him around the yard to talk to him, which was weird because Dean never talked to adults unless he had to.

Suddenly, Sam felt a knot in his stomach that made him feel sick: What if Dean decided to stay with Bobby and not John and Mary? Sam wanted to go with his parents, but he couldn't go without Dean. What if John got the wrong idea about Dean because he and Sam were play-fighting? What if he thought that Dean was bad? What if he thought what all the others thought, that because Dean was brave that he didn't need parents?

"You can't leave him here," Sam said suddenly, griping Mary's hands and then looking beseechingly between she and John. "I won't go with you if you don't take us both. I won't."

"What are you talking about, buddy?" John asked, cocking his head to the side and gazing at his youngest with a puzzled expression.

"I won't go with you unless you take Dean," he said quickly as he began to shake with fear. "You have to take both of us. That's just how it is."

"Honey, why are you so upset?" she asked. "Did Dean say something to you?"

"No!" he screamed. "It wasn't Dean. He didn't do anything. Why does everyone think he's bad? He's not. He's good. He takes care of me and protects me. Just because you can't boss him around… He doesn't need you. So I don't care what you think!"

"What do we think?" John asked.

"You think Dean's nothing but trouble, and no one in their right mind would want him around," Sam cried. "Well, you're wrong! You hear me? You're wrong!"

He wrenched his hands away from Mary and darted back up the stairs. He slammed the door promptly leaving his parents staring at each other with dumbfounded expressions.

**oOoOoOo**

Dean scuffed through the yard, kicking up little tufts of dust from the dry and cracked ground. His thoughts were vicious and screaming at him so loudly he didn't know where he was going until he rounded the corner and found himself in the auto shop where Bobby was bent over the open hood of a car. Dean wandered over to him with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

"Gravity extra hard on you today?" Bobby asked. Dean looked at him questioningly. "Your feet don't seem to want to leave the ground. Ice skating in the dirt and on cement can't be all that fun."

Dean scoffed and threw him a sour look that the man did not have the good graces to even notice. Instead, Bobby sighed.

"What are you thinking?" Bobby asked without looking up from the engine that so interested him.

"Nothing," the teen answered.

Bobby looked up and grunted in agreement as he nodded.

"Not a thought at all in your head?" Bobby remarked. "Yeah, from you I can believe that."

Dean scowled. The thought of slamming the hood shut on the old bastard's head came to mind pretty quickly, but he held back. He wasn't sure how he felt about the crotchety man, but even when he made his little digs at Dean, the look in his eyes was still easier to take than what he saw on John's face. Bobby might not be warm and cuddly (and who wanted that anyway), but at least Dean knew where he stood with the guy. He said whatever was on his mind, even if it wasn't nice or polished. Dean appreciated honesty. There was also something about him that made Dean feel safe. The guy wasn't a pervert or a church-junkie or a head shrinker. He was just a guy, kind of smart (look at all the books he had) and seemed confident without being an jackass about it. Dean had decided that of all the adults in this house, Bobby was the one he trusted.

"Do you think they're gonna leave soon?" Dean asked after a respectable pause.

"Who?" Bobby asked, again focusing on the engine block.

"Mary and John," he growled thinking the answer was pretty obvious before he said it.

"You mean your Mom and Dad?" Bobby wondered.

"Whatever," Dean shrugged. "When are they planning to leave?"

"Ask them," Bobby said.

"When are you kicking them out?" the teen persisted. "You don't want a house full of people you don't know and don't like."

"Says who?" Bobby remarked. "I never said I didn't like anyone, and I didn't say they couldn't stay."

"Didn't say they could and don't give me a bullshit line about liking your guests," Dean scoffed. "Dude, I may not know everything, but I know people. You are no fan of the Winchesters."

"Your little brother ain't so bad," he offered.

Dean nodded, agreeing with that and choosing not to feel any sting from being left out of who Bobby liked. Sam, of course, wasn't a Winchester in Dean's mind, at least not like John and Mary. Sure, it was a way cooler last name than Hardy—yet another thing he screwed up in his life by forgetting his last name years earlier—but the name wasn't what he meant. And liking Sam didn't count, in Dean's mind. Everyone liked Sam. It was like not liking school vacation or money. There was something wrong with anyone who didn't like his baby brother.

"You know anything about cars?" Bobby asked looking with a puzzled expression at the project in front of him.

"Just how to hotwire 'em and drive 'em," Dean shrugged.

He looked at Bobby with a challenging glare. Bobby's gut read the expression and decided at least part of it was true probably, which part he wasn't sure but he wasn't willing to bet it was the driving part just yet. The kid was cagey and daring him to call the possible bluff, but he wouldn't.

The more he looked at Dean, the more dangerous the kid was. Not because he was a ticking time bomb or a threat or real trouble of any sort. No, it was the damn smartass charm. Bobby had a weak spot for it, and the kid had grown on him, quickly. The little one was cute and a bit shy despite the millions of questions he seemed to ask, but it was the older boy who Bobby felt an affinity for first. He could see the pain and uncertainty in the kid, and it hurt the old hunter that he couldn't make it go away. Bobby knew the root of it. He diagnosed it from the hurt in the boy's eyes. Dean expected pain and figured the world had his number; he didn't wallow in it; he didn't want pity or help even. He was just too tough for his own good, like a little miserable Zen master falling down seven times and getting up eight because he knew the next felling blow was right around the corner anyway.

"Well, then add this to your repertoire, Einstein," the hunter said. "This is call a carburetor…"

**oOoOoOo**

Upstairs in the boy's bedroom, Sam lay on his bed facing the wall. Mary sat on the edge of the bed, trying to coax him to speak with her. He was adamant he would not.

"Just go away," Sam insisted. "You have no reason to be in here."

"I want to talk to you," she said calmly.

"No reason to do that either," Sam said. "You're not important. You're no one to me."

His words tore at her, cutting little holes in her still mending heart. She reached toward him and placed her hand on his shoulder. He jerked quickly out of her gasp as if her touched burned.

"Sam, I'm your mother," Mary said through tears.

"My mom's dead," he replied.

"No, I'm not," she replied.

"You should be," Sam scowled.

"Why would you say that?" Mary gaped.

"You left us, or you threw us away," he said angrily as he sat up and edged closer to the wall. "You didn't want us. You didn't come get us. That's not what a mom does."

"Baby, I did look for you," she said approaching him gently. "I looked everywhere, in every way I could."

"You didn't look hard enough," Sam said. "Now get out of here. Leave me alone!"

"Baby, I can't do that," she said. "I won't."

"I don't want you near me," he said backing up into the wall. "I want Dean."

"I'm sure he'll come see you in a little while," she replied. "Do you want to tell me what you were talking about downstairs?"

Sam shook his head but from his expression she knew it was a lie.

**oOoOoOo**

Evening arrived and bled into night. Dean remained outside all afternoon, within view of the house, just barely, staring at the graveyard of cars. He heard Mary calling to him to come in for dinner. He refused to acknowledge. He wanted to eat, but he didn't want to eat with them. He was tired of the staring and the act, like they were happy and nothing was wrong. Nobody was happy (except maybe Sam), and everything was wrong.

He ached all over. He was tired. Whenever he tried to sleep, he couldn't. It was 100 degrees in the room, and Sam kept mumbling in his sleep. Anytime Dean did get his eyes to close long enough to fall asleep, confusing dreams of a dark room with kids toys in it filled his mind; a man appeared, as if by magic and then the room was filled with light and his ears hurt. Other times, Dean found himself standing in a living room looking down a Sam as a baby and waiting for John and Mary to show up, but they never did and Sammy would begin screaming. Dean would shake himself awake and find himself soaked in sweat.

Sitting in the yard near the auto shop in the stillness of the evening was peaceful and, if not for the growling of his stomach, would have been wonderfully quiet. As the mosquitoes began to feast on him, he made his way back to the house as quietly as possible.

Dean entered the house through the side window. Sure, he could have gone in the door, but he didn't want to face John and Mary. He knew they were waiting for him in the library. He just wanted to go upstairs and crawl into bed without talking to anyone. His stomach was twisted with hunger, but he was used to that feeling. He would get up at some point during the night and grab something if it got bad. He didn't think Bobby would mind. He'd bitch like he did, but Dean doubted the man was as gruff as he acted. He hadn't taken a swing at Dean yet, or even threatened to; he hadn't ordered him to get the hell off his property or let him know he could do it if he felt like it. Bobby was grouchy, but he was a softy inside, Dean was certain.

Again, the man's surly sincerity was winning serious points with the teen.

As Dean crept over the window sill, he saw both sets of doors to the library were closed. Curious about the secret powwow, Dean sidled closer and pressed his ear to the door. John and Mary were in there having a tense discussion.

"You heard what I heard," Mary said. "Word for word."

"I can't… who would…," John groused. "_Dean's nothing but trouble, and no one in their right mind would want him in their lives_."

John gaped in disbelief at the words and shook his head at a loss for what to say about them.

"I know," Mary replied, seeing the shock and dismay on John's face.

He sighed and shook his head firmly.

"Okay, that's a problem for tomorrow," John sighed. "What are we doing about Sam?"

"He's all set," Mary answered. "I'll explain everything to him after he's had some rest. He's still so exhausted from everything that's happened."

"We'll talk to him it together so that he understands," John insisted.

Outside, Dean felt his heart freeze solid.

So it was true—again. They really didn't want him. They wanted Sam, that made him happy, but they truly didn't want Dean, and that blow never stopped hurting, no matter how many times he caught it.

They had decided he was trouble and not someone suitable to be a part of their family. In the past, there was never a choice. The state was in charge, and they wouldn't let anyone split up the brothers. But now? The state wasn't involved. Dean figured he could call and report himself and Sammy to the cops, but there was something funny about these people and the ones who took them so smoothly out of Chicago. He knew it was crazy to think they were spies or part of some big crime ring, but they definitely had secrets and friends in odd places. None of them seemed too dangerous—if they had, he would never have let Sam go with them—but it made Dean doubt a call to the authorities would work.

But that really wasn't an option anyway.

Sam liked these people.

More than that, he was starting to love them. Dean could see it. Just a few days with them, and his little brother was growing attached. He had even called Mary "Mom" at breakfast the other morning. She smiled, nearly cried, but did not make a big deal out of it in front of anyone. However, the light behind her eyes when he said it sent off fireworks in her face. John, too, seemed to glow a bit.

So Sammy was staying with them.

Dean wasn't so sure about John on his own taking care of Sam. The guy seemed a little reactionary and strict. Mary said he had been a Marine. Dean could see he still was on some level. It wasn't a bad thing if it kept Sam safe and out of trouble, but Dean felt better knowing Mary (who was no push over, he was certain) would be around to keep things calm. Sam needed that balance and if they could give it to him, Dean was going to let them.

What he wasn't going to do was get placed back in foster care or stick around and screw things up for his little brother. Sam would insist they take both him and Dean. Dean wouldn't let his baby brother sabotage his chance to have a real home and be happy. That left just one thing to do.

**oOoOoOo**


	8. Chapter 8

**oOoOoOo**

The heavy air of the humid, moonless night fell around him as Dean picked his way silently away from the house toward the back gate. He had scouted the salvage yard over the last several days and knew there was a main county road a few hundred yards to the west. He carried a small duffle bag stolen from one of Bobby's closets. It contained the few items of clothing Dean owned and a few dollars worth of pocket change that he found in a drawer in the kitchen.

He was heading toward the back fence, when he was interrupted.

"Goin' somewhere?" Bobby said, stepping out of the shadows.

Dean quickly jumped back and lost his balance. He tripped over his own heels and fell onto his back in the dirt. A hearty curse word rolled off his tongue as he gasped for breath and placed a hand on his chest. He ached deeply from the terrible feelings he was holding in and from being hood ornament a week earlier.

"Not bad, kid," Bobby nodded as he reached down to offer a hand up.

Dean did not move at first. He stared warily up at the hunter.

"I almost didn't hear you sneak out," Bobby continued. "Almost."

"You got some security system around here?" Dean asked struggling up to his feet on his own. "Silent alarm maybe?"

"Got ears like a bat," Bobby shrugged. "Plus I saw you tossin' your bag out the window when I got up to take a leak."

"Lovely visual," Dean nodded. "Thanks for sharing. Well, be seein' ya… or not."

"Just where do you think you're goin'?" Bobby asked. "You're 14, got no money, got no friends. You're 600 hundreds of miles from any place you know, and it's the middle of the night. Oh right, and did I mention you're 14?"

"You did, but apparently your Alzheimer's made you forget, old man," Dean noted. "What the hell do you care what I do? Just let me go and your life gets that much easier. One less stray to feed. Don't worry about it. I'm not coming back so I won't tell them you saw me. Just go back inside, have another shot and drift off to crazy man dream land."

"That mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble, lots of it," Bobby prophesied.

"It's been said," Dean shrugged.

"Your mouth talks smart, but apparently you're just plain dumb—that or you're one cold, selfish brat," Bobby replied.

"Me?" Dean scoffed. "Selfish? Shows what you know."

"What, sneaking out and leaving your brother makes you a hero?" Bobby remarked. "Unless… Oh, I get it. You're ditching him. All those years of looking after the little bastard and finally you got your chance. Leave in the middle of the night and go your own way. Get yourself a better life away from him and leave him alone. That'll pay him back for dragging you down all these years."

Dean's bag was on the ground instantly as he went at Bobby, pushing him hard in the chest. He raised a fist and swung but got caught and spun around with his upper arms held tight in the older man's grasp.

"That's not true, you asshole," Dean shouted. "You don't know anything! I'm doing this for him you prick. Now let go of me! I said let go!"

He snapped his head backward, catching Bobby in the chin. Bobby released his grip as he took his eyes off his captive to press a hand to his split lip. That mistake was obvious instantly. Dean spun quickly and sent his wrist slicing at the old hunter, chopping at his throat which dropped the man to his knees. A follow up kick to his head sent Bobby sprawling in the dirt.

"Don't you ever, ever touch me!" Dean said, bouncing in an aggressive fighter's stance. "Never, fucking touch me. Ever! And you don't know anything about me and Sam. I'm doing this for him."

"Enlighten me," Bobby groaned.

He noted that the kid was not sprinting for the fence line so something he said to Dean obviously struck a nerve. Dean's chest heaved and he glared back menacingly. With his assault posture unchanging, Bobby heaved himself to knees then slowly stood, the world spinning with the effort.

"This is Sam's chance," the teen said, his voice quaking with emotion. "Mary and John can raise him and look after him. He'll have a home—not yours I hope, but somewhere nice, some place where he has his own room and someone to go to his school plays and talk to his teachers about his grades and crap like that-just like a real family."

"Whose gonna do that for you?" Bobby asked.

"I don't need that," Dean asserted. "I took care of me and Sammy. Now, I'll just need to look after one of us."

"You don't think your parents will miss you?" Bobby asked.

Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"They just met me," he said. "They'll get over it—everyone does. I mean, they've had a decade without me, and they did just fine. And Sam? He's still a little kid. He's a good kid. No baggage yet. He's still cute and manageable. They'll be happy with him. Me? Well, they're already done with me."

"You think so?" Bobby asked. "Your Momma…"

"She's not my mother," Dean said quickly.

"She's the one who gave birth to Dean Winchester," Bobby replied.

"I'm not him," Dean replied. "Not the one they want."

"You're still family," Bobby began.

"Just because we're related doesn't make us family," Dean said. "Sam is my family. Family is people who give a shit what happens to you. They care about you no matter what a pain the ass you are or how screwed up you are or how badly you fuck up. Those people? They're looking to replace their damn babies. Well, one of them is long gone. They've got what they want in Sam."

"Why would you say that?" Bobby asked.

"Because I heard them!" Dean shouted. "I heard what John said, and Mary agreed with him. He said, '_Dean's nothing but trouble and no one in their right mind would want him in their lives_.' And then she said '_I know_.' So tell me, you got another way to fucking interpret that?"

Bobby gazed back at him and shook his head. Dean looked angry, like he wanted the hunter to disagree. When Bobby did not, Dean took a sharp breath as tears leaked down his pale cheeks and his jaw clenched angrily, but it was the betrayal and agony in the kid's tear-filled eyes that nearly reduced Bobby to a blubbering mess.

"I don't know why they said that, Dean," he said in a husky tone. "I can see it hurt you, and I can't say I blame you for how it makes you feel. If the people I cared about said something like that about me…"

"I don't care about them," the teen said roughly dragging his arm across his face, smearing the tears and reddening his eyes further as he choked back a sob. "I don't give a damn about them. My parents are dead. They died when I was four."

"Dean," Bobby stepped toward him cautiously, expecting the kid to bolt, but he did not. Taking the chance, the hunter put a warm, comforting hand on the boy's shoulders as he felt the sobs that shuddered through his thin body. "I don't know what John or Mary said or why. I know they did a pretty good job of convincing me they were glad to find the both of you. Despite how I look, I didn't fall off the turnip truck recently."

Dean mumbled something that seemed to question the concept of '_both of you_' and may have offered a quick shot at how Bobby did look. The hunter ignored the second part and moved his hand to the boy's neck. He cupped it firmly in his calloused hand. His own voice was shaky as he spoke.

"Trust me, son, I know what a mean-assed father and disengaged mother act like, and that's not John and Mary Winchester," he said. "But even if it was, you can't take off. You need someone to watch out for you."

"I'm not going back to any foster home," Dean shook his head as he tried to struggle away. "I can take care of myself. I have for years."

"That ain't your job, boy," Bobby said, holding onto him tight. "Look, you don't want to go with them or feel like you'd rather run away, then you can stay here with me. You got that? You got a home here. I ain't no one's idea of a father, but I can give you a roof over your head, a place to keep warm and sleep, a place to do your homework, and food to eat. It ain't much, but it sure beats the streets."

Dean looked up at him. His thick lashes mashed together into dark triangles by tears. His cheeks, so pale and ghostly in the moonlight, glistened. His expression was one of shock and gratitude.

"Why?" he asked skeptically. "Why would you do that? You don't know me."

"Well, I kind of do, kid," Bobby answered gruffly. "Besides, I'm a glutton for punishment. So, we got a deal?"

Dean stepped back and looked uncertain. He still wanted to be mad. He was certainly feeling rejected and dejected. He had that adolescent expression that said he wanted to make people hurt as badly as they hurt him and was willing to hurt himself further to do it. After a moment of chewing his lip, he shrugged.

"How 'bout this," Bobby offered, reaching down and taking the boy's bag, "we head inside, and you think about it until morning. Then, once you've had a chance to consider your options, you can tell me what you decided. If you decide you want to go, I'll… I'll buy you a bus ticket back to Chicago or anywhere else you want to go, within reason. You might have noticed, this is a bare bones operation."

Dean smirked then seemed to catch himself so he replaced it with a scowl. He then shrugged and hung his head as he scuffed his feet in the dirt walking beside Bobby back to the house.

"Get some rest, boy," Bobby counseled as they entered the kitchen. "You've got yourself all worked up into a fit. You're burning up with all that rage and pain. If you decide to stay here or if you want to head back to Chicago, you let me know. I'll figure out some way to make them understand."

Dean nodded thankfully to him as he wearily climbed the stairs.

**oOoOoOo**

Morning arrived and the boys were up early. Dean looked as though he had not slept. He stuffed a Poptart in his mouth and dragged his little brother outside with him to throw around a scuffed football that they had found in the trunk of one of the old cars in the back. Sam wasn't too keen on the idea as he preferred to wait for Mary to get up and make him eggs, but Dean ordered him to follow. It wasn't so much that Sam felt he had to go, but he could tell something was off with Dean and figured he should stick close until Dean felt like telling him what that was.

Bobby watched them go without objection. Dean merely nodded in his direction. Bobby turned his attention back to the morning's paper and sipped his coffee. He could tell the boy wasn't making plans to leave—at least at that moment. He just wanted to be away from adults without actually being alone. Sam was just with him for comfort and company while he made his decision. Fairly typical reaction for a bratty, know-it-all teenager in Bobby's book; why the act baffled the parents was what confused the hunter.

John rolled off the couch not long after the door banged shut. He said nothing as he polished off a cup of coffee. Mary finally joined them. She was showered and dressed for the day, expecting to beat her sons to the kitchen as she had done each day so far but was surprised to see them already in the yard a fair distance from the house tossing a ball. She moved toward the door to call to them, but Bobby stopped her.

"A word," Bobby said flatly to John and Mary, while keeping his eye on the boys, making sure they stayed far enough away not to hear this discussion. "I don't know what happened yesterday or why it happened, but the two of you need to get your shit straight right now. You nearly lost that boy last night and if you're not careful, it'll happen for certain. I can't guarantee you my bladder will come to the rescue in time again."

"What are you talking about?" John asked.

"You and your dumb mouth, no doubt," Bobby snarled. "Look, that boy's a sneaky little shit, but he comes by it honestly."

The parents exchanged a quick look that said the same thing in varying degrees of concern and frustration: Dean. Bobby read this clearly and his anger ticked a notch higher.

"Yes, Dean," he spat. "He's had to live a little fast and loose with rules and proper etiquette to survive since he was toddler so it shouldn't surprise you that he don't exactly trust any of this or either of you yet."

John scoffed and slammed down his mug, the remaining liquid sloshed over the side spilling onto the counter. He glared at Bobby.

"But he trusts you?" John barked. "Why?"

"'Cause he's smart and a good judge of character," Bobby nodded confidently. "Oh, and because he don't have any reason not to trust me. As for you, well, he overheard you and Brunhilda here having a chat about him when you thought you were alone. Something about not wanting him but wanting to keep Sam."

She ran her fingers anxiously through her hair and turned her eyes to the boys outside. Sam was picking himself off the ground having tripped while trying to catch a pass. Other than need to brush off some dirt, he appeared fine.

"That's not what was said," Mary argued. "Or, it's not what we meant."

"Well, it's what he heard," Bobby replied, cutting off any explanations. "Get this through your heads, both of you: That's a scared and scarred kid out there. Oh, he talks a great tough game. Makes it look like he's got it all together and nothing phases him, but news flash Mom and Dad: It's a lie. He's 14. Hiding what he's feeling is what teenagers do. You gotta be smarter than him and from the looks of it, that just ain't happening."

John scowled and felt the tension building in his shoulders. The muscles in his jaw jumped as he clenched and breathed heavily through his nose in an effort to calm himself. It seemed that each day they grew further and further apart from their children. He had wanted them back for so long, to end the agony of their disappearance, but it seemed that all they had done was trade one nightmare for another.

"What happened?" John asked.

"He tried to run away," Bobby said. Mary gasped and John began to move toward the door. "Hold it right there, Winchester. You say a word to him about it, and he'll bolt for certain. Right now, he's staying put because he's got other options, and they make him feel like he's in control again with some choices. You corner him on it, and he'll be gone. You thought he was hard to find before, you just wait until he puts all his efforts into not being found and see how easy it is."

"What choices?" Mary asked in a small and fearful voice.

"He can leave if he wants—god knows he's crafty enough to ditch this place if he's pushed," Bobby replied. "He can stay with you both and his brother (if you'll have him) or…"

"No one said…," John growled then seethed, a dark expression growing from his eyes.. "We were talking about what Sam told us not… Never mind. You said '_or_'. Or what?'

Bobby looked back at him neither intimidated or offended by the vicious expression on the man's face. The man wanted his family back and was nearly strangling it in the process by hanging on to the wrong things too tightly. Bobby actually felt pity for him. He had buckets of disappointment in both Winchester adults at that point, but there was a dam full of pity ahead of it.

"Or he can stay with me," Bobby said plainly. "Yeah, I know you don't like it, John, but screw you. That kid needs someone who will listen to him and hear him, not someone who keeps making him try to be the little kid they lost."

"He's not your son," Mary said.

"He's not the son we lost either," John grumbled as he raking his hand through his hair. "Our Dean…"

"That right there is your damn problem!" Bobby snapped feeling his skin grow hot under this beard as his neck corded in anger. "He is _your_ _Dean_. You just won't see it, and he senses that. He thinks you don't want him because he isn't the innocent, little boy who vanished. Well, guess what, that little kid grew up. They all do! Only yours did it without a lot of help or guidance, and the only one who gave a damn about him was his baby brother. But somehow that kid still managed to turn out pretty fantastic if you ask me."

"We didn't say he wasn't," John snapped.

"You told him that yet?" Bobby asked.

The parents looked guiltily back at him then to each other. Mary's face grew pale and her eyes glassy. John cursed under his breath and ground his teeth together for a moment.

"That's right," Bobby continued. "Easy as goddamn pie, but neither of you done it yet, and you missed that chance. Should have done it first thing, but instead you've been all over him for his mouth or those smug looks and eye rolls he does. You give him nasty looks of your own when you see Sam turning to him for permission or approval all the time. You got their bodies back, but that's just physical custody. You need to work a hell of a lot harder to get all of them back."

"We're trying," Mary insisted.

"Yeah, I know, but it ain't about try," Bobby said, remembering Dean's chiding of him speaking a bit like Yoda the other day. "Try don't win the game. Doing is what gets you there. You're so wrapped up in being confused because getting them back wasn't this perfect reunion. Well, guess what? Time didn't stop for those boys—and it moved a hell of lot faster for Dean because he had to grow up too quickly to watch out for his baby brother. Frankly, everything he did should make you goddamn proud, but it's like you can't even see what's right in front of you. Dean is a handful, no doubt, but that's because he is smart and capable. He thinks fast on his feet. According to Sam and those school reports, he's not a bad student, just undisciplined. He's also got a plan for his future—how many 14-year-old boys you ever heard of who think beyond the next chance they have for some 'me-time' in the shower? No doubt he needs to learn to show a little more respect and he might benefit from a little ivory soap in his cornflakes, but otherwise, I can't see what you'd want to change. The fact that you don't see any of that scares the hell out of me for his sake. So, I'm putting you on notice here and now: If you don't do right by him, I sure as hell will."

**oOoOoOo**

The morning dragged on with John and Mary making themselves scarce from Bobby's sight. Mary felt ashamed and chastised. John was muddled. He understood what the man was saying, but he was angry at being schooled in parenting by a guy who didn't even have a pet.

He could feel the coiled spring of anger constricting in his chest and opted to avoid his boys when they tromped back to the house for PB&J sandwiches. Sam then parked himself on the porch to read, and Dean was allegedly upstairs, presumably taking a nap. Mary was up there, changing the beds so as John found himself alone, he wandered into the library. He hung back from the desk where the hunter sat deeply focused on a book in front of him.

"What was it?" John asked as he stared at the floor. "You said Dean's got a plan for his future. What does he…"

Bobby looked up from his book, the one he was reading to research further what might have the power or the interest to throw a glamour on a photo for John and a few others to see. Unfortunately, Bobby never saw the alleged picture of Sam. John seemed to be the only witness to both its appearance and disappearance on the paper.

"College to get a degree in computers or engineering or something like that so he can invent a sort of like a lo-jack for kids," Bobby replied. "He's got this idea for a computer chip you can put under a kid's skin so that if their parents ever lose them or someone takes them, the cops can find the little nose-pickers with satellites—it's scrying for the average human, I guess. No way it would work. Damn conspiracy theorists would have a field day with claims of government control and what not. But, he might make a fortune selling it to pet owners."

John blinked and then raised his eyebrows.

"Where did he get that idea?" John asked.

"His stint in with that high tech monitoring to avoid time in actual juvenile detention," Bobby chuckled. "Your boy figured out how to remove his ankle monitor without setting off any alarms. He figured a kidnapper could do the same to a little kid wearing one for protection, but if you could get something small placed under the skin..."

John nodded, appreciating the complexity and the simplicity of the concept. His heart also ached at the reason the boy ever needed to come up with the idea. He was amazed mostly at the heart of the invention. It was something to help other rather than have families go through what theirs did. It showed a lot more compassion and insight that John thought his oldest was capable of.

"That's actually pretty smart," John noted.

"Pretty smart?" Bobby glanced at him but opted not to give him a filthy look. He could see the man was still highly pissed but was trying. "It's either nine kinds of mad scientist crazy, or it's fucking brilliant. Hell, it may be both, and the kind of heart and compassion behind an idea like that... It's nearly goddamn saintly, if you ask me."

**oOoOoOo**

Having changed the sheets in her room and folded all the laundry from the dryer, Mary made her way down the hall to the bedroom Sam and Dean shared. Dean was alone, laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The heat in the room was oppressive as the temperatures outside again soared into the low 90s.

"Dean?" Mary said approaching him cautiously.

"What?" he asked in a pissy tone without looking up at her.

"Can I talk to you?" she asked.

"Can't stop you can I?" he replied flatly.

"Dean, sweetie…," she began as she sat beside him on the bed. He slid away and cut his eyes coldly at her. "Dean, something's bothering you. Your father and I have noticed, and I wanted to ask you…"

"We," John said appearing in the doorway, "we wanted to ask you…"

Mary looked at him and nodded as he entered the room.

"We wanted to ask you what's wrong," she said.

"Nothing," he replied and smiled thinly. "My life is peachy. I'm fine."

"I don't think you are," she disagreed. "A lot has happened to you in the last two weeks."

"Story of my life, bitch," Dean replied smugly with a nonchalant shrug.

"Watch your tone," John said automatically. "That's your mother and even if it wasn't, that's no way to speak to any adult, much less your mother."

John kept his voice even and at a mild volume, but he may have shouted for the sour reaction he received.

"Right," Dean replied antagonistically. "My sincerest apologies, _Mary_."

"Not helping your case," John warned.

Bobby could preach to John about easing up on the boy, and John believed there as a time and place for that. But John also believed in discipline and respect—one bred the other and until Dean showed some he was not going to receive a lot of latitude with his attitude. John knew he could work with the boy to get through this adjustment period, but the teenager needed to understand he was not an equal and would not be calling the shots.

Mary, however, sensed the crackle in the air and cut her eyes at her husband and begged him with a look to back off.

"John, please," Mary cautioned.

"I'm all for him speaking his mind and behind honest with us, but there are rules and…," John began, stating his case and expectations in an even tone.

A dark and knowing grin flashed across Dean's face.

"Oh, and if I break them what then?" Dean taunted. "You're gonna send me to bed without dinner? Kind of used to that, John. Going to bed hungry happens three or four time a week. You going to ground me? Been locked up before and it didn't take—ask Bobby about it; it's a hell of a story. Want to take away my favorite toys? I don't own a fucking thing, dumb ass, so…"

"Okay," John shouted throwing his hands in the air. "I haven't asked that much of you, Dean, but your mouth gets an adjustment today. Clean up your language now. This is the last time I am going to…"

"Stop!" Sam shouted from the door.

He had been on the porch and overheard the voices spilling out of the bedroom window. Fear spiked in Sam's gut and sent him tearing into the house and up the stairs. He had seen this moment play out several times before in his young life, and he'd never been able to do anything to help or to stop it. But that was when he was younger and was worried about a caseworker pulling him and Dean apart. They were out of the state's control now, and Sam felt this was his chance to do what Dean always did for him: protect him.

The 10-year-old placed himself between Dean and John. Sam threw his arms around Dean's neck and hugged him.

"You can't hit him," Sam cried. "Please. Don't!"

Dean pried his brother back as John and Mary stared at their sons with aghast expressions.

"I'm not going to hit him," Dean assured his brother as he brushed the hair from Sam's watery eyes.

"No, not you," Sam said teary-eyed to Dean then looked back at John. "I don't want him to hit you, Dean."

John looked like he had been sucker punched. He gaped and looked from the boys to Mary. She met him with an equally appalled expression.

"I wasn't going to," John began, all authority from a moment earlier bled of his voice as he caught the cold and disbelieving stare in his oldest son's eyes.

"I can handle it, Sammy," Dean assured his brother. "Go downstairs."

"Dean, no," Sam shook his head and looked frightened. "I'm not leaving you."

"Yeah, you are," his older brother said firmly. "Now, go. You don't protect me, little man. I'm the big brother, remember? I mean it, Sammy. Downstairs with Bobby. Now."

The little boy slid warily and reluctantly off the bed and then dashed for the stairs. His sob echoed in the hall. Dean winced at the sound but remained sitting while fighting the urge to check on how upset Sam truly was. Mary cut her eyes quickly at John in a silent order. He shrugged defeatedly then followed the crying boy as Mary drew closer to Dean on the bed. He put a weakly triumphant grin on his face.

"Happy?" she remarked upon seeing it.

"Yeah, my life's a goddamn party," he grimaced. "Good times."

Rather than discuss it with him further, Mary shook her head then left the room. Dean punched the center of his pillow. Angry and berating thoughts, mostly pointed at himself, raced through his mind. He clenched his jaws and decided there wasn't enough air in the room anymore. He stormed down the stairs and out the backdoor before anyone seemed to notice.

In the library, Sam's hiccupping sobs masked all sound of the back door opening and closing as Mary and John huddled around their youngest. Sam hugged his knees and wished for them to go away but knew it wouldn't happen.

"Sam?" John said, kneeling in front of the couch where the little boy was curled up weeping. "Sam, it's okay. No one is mad."

"You're mad at Dean," he cried. "You're going to make him leave. You don't want him, and you're going to make him go away and leave me. I hate you!"

"No," Mary shook her head and sat beside him, wrapping her arms around him despite the thrashing as he tried to push her away. "No one's leaving. Okay? No one is leaving."

"I wasn't going to hit him," John pleaded.

"You were," Sam insisted. "That's how it happens. They get mad at Dean, just like you were. They always say, '_This is the last time,_' just like you did, and then because he won't be afraid them they…"

The little boy choked on his final words as a sob tore up his throat and his eyes squeezed shut behind as he ground his tiny fists into them to crush out the horrible memories.

"What?" Mary gasped. She looked sick as her eyes shot from Sam's shaking form to John's stunned expression.

"Who hit him?" John asked angrily then winced at his tone and softened it for his next pass. "Sam, did someone hurt your brother? Did anyone hurt you?"

Sam shook his head as his swollen eyes leaked rivers down his cheeks. Dean always told him to keep his mouth shut until he knew why someone was asking him a question.

"Sammy," Mary said warmly, petting his hair gently, "tell us the truth. No matter if someone made you scared or told you not to tell. We need to know. We can't help you if we don't know what happened."

"You're gonna think he's bad, and he's not," Sam shook. "Dean's not bad. He takes care of me. He protects me, and if you make him go away, I'll…"

"We're not going to make Dean go away, buddy," John coaxed.

"If he runs away, I'm going with him," Sam vowed. "You won't ever find us. Not ever!"

"Dean's not running away and neither are you," John assured him. "No one's going to make your brother go anywhere, and no one is going to hit anyone. That's not how a family behaves, and we're a family."

"You just met us," Sam cried. "And big people lie. You do it all the time. They were all supposed to take care of us, but they didn't. They were supposed to be nice to us, and they weren't. They were mean and…"

"And what?" Mary asked, rubbing his back.

Sam tried to stop himself, but the words would not stay in his mouth. Before he knew it, the stories, the ones he wasn't supposed to tell until he knew why people needed to know, came out. The nights without food, the rooms without heat, the foster parents who liked to slap (and punch when you tried to run away or defend yourself) and, worst of all, the one that tried to touch Sam in places he didn't like to think about. Dean got there just in time that day, before anything happened, and his older brother got hit hard for it. The bruise on Dean's chest lasted for weeks and made him breath funny for a while. But Dean learned after that day what he needed to do. He found a place for Sam to do his homework that wasn't really all that quiet, but it was safer. While Sam did his homework, Dean had lessons of his own, ones that helped him learn how to protect Sam and himself.

Mary was about to ask what those lessons were when Bobby surfaced from the basement and provided her with the answer.

"Your boy studied Krav Maga," Bobby said, leaning on the doorway with his hands in his pockets. Sam looked up and sniffled as he smiled weakly and nodded in agreement. John and Mary looked puzzled. "It's a Hungarian/Israeli hybrid of a pretty exotic and effective hand-to-hand close combat technique. Who taught it to Dean, kid?"

"Rabbi Yoda," Sam replied through a sniffle. Dean trusted Bobby so telling him things seemed okay. "I don't know his real name. Dean calls him Rabbi Yoda or just the rabbi. The rabbi's got a bunch of scars, like he got burned. Everyone was afraid of him, that's why Dean asked him."

"What do you mean?" Mary asked as she rubbed his back to soothe him.

Sam struggled to a sitting position but did not throw off her arm. He dragged his forearm across his face to wipe off the tears as he sniffled again to stop his nose from running.

"Well, the rabbi had all those scars, and he was still alive, and everyone was afraid of him, so that meant he knew how to survive bad stuff," Sam shrugged. "So Dean went right up to him and asked him how he did it. He didn't want to talk to Dean, but Dean kept at it. After a while, Dean talked the rabbi into teaching him things that he knew. Everyone said the rabbi used to killed people for a living a long time ago because he was most odd."

While the parents winced at the revelation their son may have learned a deadly martial art from a murderer, Bobby merely chuckled and shook his head. All three Winchesters looked at him for an explanation.

"Not _most odd_, kid," he explained. "_Mossad_. Israeli Special Forces, like Hebrew Chuck Norris's, you could say. They specialize in and perfected Krav Maga." Mary and John looked at him for more information. "Dean, uh, demonstrated a few moves for me last night, and I got curious so I did a little research today. He teach you any of it, squirt?"

Bobby figured it was wise to know. Having two loaded human weapons in the house was a trickier situation than just one, even if the second one was just a pea shooter at this point.

"Not the rabbi, but Dean did," Sam brightened. "Dean said I'm pretty good, and I'll be even better when I'm bigger and stronger."

"No doubt," Bobby nodded then looked at John and jerked is head for him to follow.

They stepped into the kitchen as Mary continued to comfort and assure Sam everything was alright. Bobby leaned against the stove as John shook his head and seethed.

"Jesus, Bobby," John scrubbed a hand over his face. "Thugs and pedophiles? That's whose been watching my kids. How screwed up are they?"

"Wrong question," Bobby growled. "What are you going to do to help them feel safe? Dean's pushing all your buttons because he's got no trust. He ain't said anything to me, but I don't think he was molested. I think someone tried to do that to Sam, and that's why his big brother don't like anyone he don't trust around the kid. He still don't know you, John, so he don't trust you. Now, I am certain the boy got thumped a time or two—with his mouth, it ain't surprising. You're just playing right into that. He's sure you're gonna snap and treat him the way the others did. That's why he's pushing you. He's trying to make you pop your cork on his time schedule so he's prepared for it."

"But I'm not going to," John vowed.

He knew that he barked and growled like a grouchy dog sometimes and he used his voice and stance to intimidate. He was pathologically competitive—he had been a Marine after all! But there was nothing vicious in his character.

"I know that, but your boys have got a lifetime of no reason to believe you," Bobby replied. "Dean's looking for you to take a swing so he can give one back and then bolt. It's classic Mossad training: Pick your battle, hit your target hard, and disappear into nothingness."

"Okay, I shoot off at the mouth—so does Dean, it's kind of genetic I guess—but I'd never hit him," John pleaded. "Hell, I never even spanked Dean once when he was little. I'm not going suddenly to raise my fist to my son. And I sure as hell would never let anyone else hit either of them."

Bobby nodded, agreeing. John, in his opinion, was jackass of the first order sometimes, but he didn't have a real mean streak in him. Bobby had watched the man pine and suffer for years searching for his boys and be devastated each time a lead proved to be nothing. The man just wasn't handling the stress and anxiety of having his world flipped around very well—none of them were.

"He don't know that," Bobby reminded him. "He only knows you're an alpha male, a former Marine, who barks at him and looks pissed when you see him. John, put your armor away and get him to trust you so he does the same."

Bobby spoke with such confidence and understanding, and he could because he had something John did not: a bond with Dean. John had not missed the way Dean had warmed to the crusty old man, which was surprising because in John's experience nobody warmed to Bobby Singer. You dealt with him. You worked with him. You didn't look to him like your favorite uncle.

"How did you do it?" John scowled.

"Well, I'm lucky," Bobby shrugged. "I'm naturally charming. Whereas your personality type is more what they call jackass, but I can give you a few tips."

"Funny," John sneered, but it turned into a smirk. "Okay, the advice?"

"Be straight with him," Bobby said simply. "Your oldest thinks you blame him for getting taken, for him and his brother ending up in all those shitholes for homes. He thinks that you don't want him, that he's damaged goods, and that he's getting in the way of his little brother having a happy life with you and his mother. That's a bad combination—especially when you mix it with a hormonal teen who has brains, is creative and knows Israeli ninja moves."

"I've told him we're glad to have him back," John said.

"No, you haven't, you just think you have," Bobby said. "So go tell him again. Better yet, show him. Make him believe you, John."

"How?" he asked.

"What am I, Dr. Spock?" Bobby snarled. "You're his damn father. Act like it. You love the boy, tell him-show him. He talks tough, but he's just a scared kid. Look, you've won half the battle to getting on his good side: You're good to his brother. He wants to like you—hell, he wants to love you, but he's afraid. So just be good to him. That's don't mean giving him his own way all the time, but it also don't mean trying to change everything about who he is or run him through boot camp. That boy's been through hell, and it left marks. Well, you can't buff out those dings. They're a part of him now. You just gotta help him find the other parts of him that haven't had a chance to shine. Right now, all he knows is how to take care of his brother and protect him. You've invaded that territory."

"I'm their father," John growled. "Taking care of Sam, of both of them, is my job."

"Convince him of that," Bobby replied. "He's ready to accept that you'll take care of Sam. He just ain't believing that you'll do the same for him."

**oOoOoOo**


	9. Chapter 9

**oOoOoOo**

Cornering Dean, without making him feel cornered, proved more difficult than John thought possible. He refused lunch and brushed off Mary's attempts to ask if there was anything wrong. She thought he looked a bit flush. Of course, considering the day's blow up, not eating much and seeming to just want to sleep left John thinking the kid was coming down with teenage angst and depression. He vaguely recalled his own misery during that time of his life, and he didn't have quite the same baggage to haul as his son.

What Dean did not seem too tired or too hungry to do was fight. He snapped at Mary and cut his eyes coldly at Sam a few times. He held back on biting Bobby's head off that afternoon, but the urge to give the man the bird was obvious in the teen's weary eyes. The dark circles under them were more pronounced than ever giving him an even more haunted look.

So if a fight was what he wanted, John decided to give it to him.

Bobby told him to get through to the boy. Well, maybe letting the fit burn itself out by giving him the chance to take a swing was the answer. As the sun rose higher in the hazy June sky, John wandered the heaps of crushed cars in search of his son. He found him sitting in the shade of an old, mangled Cadillac.

"So here's the deal," John said firmly. "I'm sick of your sulking and your attitude. You've had it with my rules and admonishments. The way I see it, two pigheaded bastards like us only know one way to resolve this."

"Right," Dean scoffed. "Bare-knuckles behind the auto shop?"

"Exactly," John replied.

Dean looked up at him with a smirk that faded into astonishment as it dawned on him that John was not joking. Dean hesitated.

"No way," Dean shook his head, a hint of apprehension laced into his voice.

"Does this mean you're admitting you're all talk about being a badass?" John wondered.

He looked down at the kid tauntingly. Even to John's weary eyes, the kid looked agonizingly tired. The boy was apparently getting even less sleep than John.

"No," Dean replied defiantly.

"Then what's the problem?" John asked. "Just because you're gonna lose you don't want to even try?"

"I wouldn't lose, pal," Dean assured him. "I just don't want to hurt you and get my ass sent to jail in Deliverance county. Besides, there's no way Mary would let you do this. I don't know what game you're playing, but I don't want any part of it."

John stepped forward and grabbed the collar of Dean's T-shirt and dragged him to his feet. Dean stared at him with a bewildered expression, and he instantly dropped into a fighting stance, ready to fend off any other approach.

"We've both had it with each other, and I think we just need to settle this like men," John said. "Either you agree to stop your smart ass remarks and cut out the cursing, or you get your ass behind the shop right now. Choice is yours."

Dean jerked out of his grasp and glared menacingly back at him. He opted to call John on his bluff. He walked deliberately, with his head up and his arms loose at his sides trying to show the man he wasn't afraid or backing off. John was sick at heart about doing this but still had to fight a smirk at the kid's cocky act. He recognized it (having pulled this punk crap in his own youth) and found it laughable despite the unbearable sorrow it caused him.

They arrived at the spot, out of sight of the house. It was a weed strewn patch of ground free of any obvious car parts. John wasn't sure there weren't sharp pieces (or other things) buried just below the surface so he made a mental note not to let the kid get knocked down. Dean had joked about needing a Tetanus shot when they arrived, but John figured it was probably true.

Dean quickly bounced on the balls of his feet, back and forth and side to side, impressing John with his agility and speed. John stood still with his arms lank at his sides watching the boy. Dean circled him a few times, his expression growing darker with each second. After his third revolution around John, the boy's composure broke.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked hotly as he shoved John. "Are you afraid, old man? Huh? You're supposed to be fighting!"

"No, you're the one who wants to fight," John shook his head as he stood still. "This is your deal, Dean. I don't hit first. And I only hit back when I need to protect myself. I really doubt you can or will do any harm to me so, go on. Take your swing. You hate me so much that you want to knock my block off. Well, go ahead."

John tossed in a small smirk at the end, knowing it would enrage the kid. No teenager could let a taunt like that pass. They simply didn't possess the capacity to do so. John saw the rage burst like a firework behind Dean's eyes as the kid came at him. Fists and elbows and feet of fury flailed in a blur of limbs. John ducked and blocked as best as he could. Bobby was right, the boy had some training. John's own hand-to-hand schooling was 20 years out of date. He considered himself lucky that Dean's speed was not matched by his strength. He was wiry and energetic, but there was very little power behind most of the blows. Whether it was due to him being just a stringy, underfed and exhausted kid, or because he truly did not want to hurt anyone, John did not know. He was just glad he was probably only going to have a few bruises and sore spots once the fit burned itself out.

Throughout the match, Dean kept ordering John to swing, to hit him, to do anything other than just stand there. His anger grew as each tag passed without retaliation.

When one unexpected strike came at John from his blind spot, he reacted instinctively and thrust out his elbow to block it a second too late. He hit the boy in the side with more force than John intended and made Dean gasp. That contact seemed to spur the teenager on into another level of fury as he reached his arms out in an attempt to throw John to the ground, but John saw the exhaustion in the boy's face before he even grabbed onto him. Dean was about ready to drop. He was crying, his face red from emotion and exertion. His knees faltered a bit as he came at John that final time. John simply enfolded him into an embrace and held onto him. Dean thrashed and tired to resist, but there was no strength left in him.

John held him tight in an unyielding bear hug, feeling the sobs wrack his son's body. He was burning hot to the touch and John was a bit concerned about heat stroke but the amount of sweat pouring off the boy was a fair sign he wasn't yet dehydrated to the point of danger. What bothered John more was the prominence of the bones under the boy's flesh. It was the same thing he felt when he hugged Sam. He made a mental note that there would no more skipping of meals for either of them—no matter how pissed they were at their parents.

"Let me go," Dean seethed trying to break free as he tried to get his leg behind John's in a takedown maneuver, but there was no strength in him to accomplish it.

"No," John said firmly.

"I said let go of me you bastard!" he yelled.

"Never," John assured him.

John's mind was sent back to another time, a more innocent time, of holding his boy as he thrashed in a tantrum. That time was over not wanting to take medicine for an ear infection. He held the kicking and screaming toddler down in that instant too and felt nearly as terrible as he did at this time. It was the pain in his heart that convinced John of what Bobby said: Those were not two different boys; they were the same. This was Dean. His Dean.

Over and over Dean threatened, ordered, pleaded and eventually sobbed for John to leave him alone and let him go, his voice growing more feeble with each demand. Again and again, John refused. Alternating his responses between just two words spoken clearly and calmly (No and Never) as he clenched his son tightly to his chest.

"I spent a decade looking for you, Dean," John said, feeling his son slump against him as last of the fight burned out of the boy. "Every night I prayed I would find you. I went to sleep with a knot of anguish in my chest because I hadn't done it, and every morning I would wake up and think 'maybe today.' So, no, son. My prayers were answered so I will not go away. I will not leave you alone. I will not let you go. You're my boy, and I love you. I want you here, and I need you here with us in this family. I hate that I didn't find you sooner. I am so sorry that I didn't. I don't know what else I could have done, but that's my burden to carry, not yours. I know I can't make it up to you, but I can sure as hell make sure you don't ever have to feel that way again. You will always have a home with us. You will also be our son. You will always be loved by us and wanted by us. It doesn't matter what you say or do. You are stuck with your mother and me; and we will never, ever, let you go."

"I can't believe you," Dean shook his head as he sobbed hard. "I can't believe any of that."

John swallowed hard, nearly drowning in the tears pooling in his son's eyes. The fear and the mistrust and the hurt were overwhelming. The heat radiating from Dean's body was immense and powerful. John reached forward and cupped the back of his son's neck, forcing Dean to look directly into his eyes.

"Belief is for people who don't have actual proof," John said. "So you don't have to believe me, Dean, because I'm going to prove it to you."

Dean shook his head but not with much certainty. He stepped away and drew a ragged breath.

"How?" he asked, dragging his hand roughly across his watering eyes.

"Well, I'm still working on that," John chuckled as he shrugged. "It's going to be kind of a long process. Can you give me a little bit of time to get you the answer? I figure in maybe 20 or 30 years, I'll have enough evidence to show you."

Dean froze and stared at him with a blank expression and bewilderment filling his red-rimmed and puffy eyes.

"How many years?" Dean asked hoarsely as he blinked.

"What?" John scoffed. "I'm only 39, kid. I think I've got at least another 30 years in me, maybe more. I can do this, Dean. Just give me the chance."

Dean looked at him with uncertainty. John shrugged and broke into a deep, rumbling laugh. Anger arced across Dean's features for a moment until a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. Taking the lack of acerbic comments as a step forward, John draped his arm over his son's shoulders and started walking back toward the house. Dean moved along with him, rubbing the aching spot where John tagged him but saying nothing more. He wasn't all that keen on all this hugging crap, but he was tired and leaning on his sparring partner made the trek a little easier.

Dean's head was spinning. He was exhausted and thirsty and aching. He was also completely confused about what was going on. He had been challenged to a brawl by his father and somehow they were kind of laughing about it? It was too much to process with such low blood sugar, he decided as he trudged along. His legs felt unnaturally heavy and uncoordinated.

"Lost all that fancy footwork, huh?" John remarked, noting the scuffing of his feet in their slow progress. "I know you showed your brother some of what you learned in how to defend himrself, but I want you to be careful. You can get hurt playing around."

Dean merely nodded.

"Maybe I'll have you show me some of that crazy maga stuff or whatever it's called," John said. "Looks like a hell of a workout. You're still on fire. Look at you? You could ring out that shirt and nearly fill a bucket."

Dean picked absent mindedly at the soaked cloth. He was roasting. Between the sun and the pummeling he tried to put on the old man, he was spent. His vision was growing dark around the edges. He wondered if the cut in the back of his head had opened up again as he felt light headed. He reached back and touched his hair. He moved his hand forward again and was surprised not to see any blood.

They climbed the steps to the house, each pace closer making Dean more and more dizzy. John notice this and handed him a glass of water then said he would be taking everyone to the diner in town for an early dinner. He told Dean to finish his water then go change his clothes. John would summon the other Winchesters.

John trotted up the stairs and found Mary in the room she was using as her own. She was sitting on the bed showing Sam pictures of himself as a baby. Both looked up with questioning expressions.

"Sam, go clean up," John said. "We're all going to eat at the diner."

"All of us?" Sam asked cautiously

"Yeah, make it quick," he winked and waved the boy out of the room. "Dean and I are starving."

At the mention of John and Dean being in agreement, Sam's face brightened. He raced from the room and toward the bathroom at the end of the hall to wash his hands and face. Mary was not as easily swayed. She folded her arms and regarded him warily. Her question did not need to be spoken.

"I challenged him to a duel," John laughed at her unspoken question. "Or something like that. I think phase one of his teenage tantrum is done. At least, I hope it is. I can't let him keep trying to kick my ass every time he gets a mood swing. He's at like junior action hero level already."

He rubbed his side where Dean had landed a few repeated blows. The knot forming there was not too large but it was definitely there.

"John?" she questioned.

"I let him do what he's been coiled up and waiting for: throw a few punches," John said. "He had a full head of steam, but his heart wasn't really in it, and he knows my certainly wasn't at all. Now, he's just exhausted and hungry. He needs a good meal and a long night's sleep—a few weeks of that actually."

"You were fighting with him?" she scoffed.

"No, he was blowing off steam," John corrected. "And we talked…in our own way. Look, it's a start."

"Well, don't do it again," she said but her anger had ebbed. "Set up an obstacle course and challenge him to a race next time. Honestly, John. Boxing with your son? How many pigheaded males do I need to parent in this family anyway?"

**oOoOoOo**

Downstairs, Bobby entered the house as he returned from a trip to the library. He had picked up a few more books for Sam and one of his own on Krav Maga. Being in close quarters with a teenage lethal weapon in training, reading up on the subject just made good sense to Bobby. However, he did not have a chance to go far with the books as he spotted the heap on the kitchen floor.

He raced inside to find Dean curled up and unconscious in front of the sink.

**oOoOoOo**

The drive to the hospital was a blur for John. He carried Dean to the car and held him in the back seat as Bobby manned the wheel. Mary was initially left behind to stay with Sam but arrived several minutes behind them with the boy in tow. His hazel eyes were wide and scared as he stared at the commotion of the ER.

After several more long and tense minutes, a doctor stepped out. Rigidity in Dean's abdomen revealed he was bleeding internally. They had pumped several more units into him while the CAT scan was completed. The image revealed a ruptured spleen. Dean was being rushed to the OR to remove it and stop the bleeding.

Mary gasped and felt John grasp her hand—both in a show of support for her and a search for some of his own. Bobby took possession of Sam, who desperately begged to stay. However, all adults agreed he should be spared the long wait. Bobby brokered a deal with the boy to let him do the talking when his parents called the house with news—and they promised to call as soon as they had any updates at all.

As the weeping and worried boy left with the hunter, John and Mary were shown to a more private waiting room. They took seats on uncomfortable chairs and commenced to staring at the wall. Mary made John tell her precisely what happened during their 'duel.' He explained, in detail, how he let Dean do all the work. John made himself the target. He only bumped against their son once, when John got tagged unexpectedly and simply reacted instinctively. And even then Dean barely faltered in delivering his wave of hits. They had finished the bout breathless but talking and walking with no real indication of trouble. Dean seemed tired and a little shaky, but John attributed that to not eating and expending so much violent energy. Even the ER doctors confirmed there was no evidence of a mark on Dean to show what caused the rupture in an otherwise healthy teenager.

John's guilt was profound, but Mary felt it was for any harm ever caused to Dean rather than a specific harm. She did not suspect John had lost his temper and thrashed their son. Initially, she was frantic and did worry that was the case, but all evidence (including John's demeanor) put that fear to rest.

So they sat in sullen silence and watched as the minutes ticked by and waited to hear news of their son.

"What are we going to do?" John asked quietly as the silence became unbearable.

"Wait for news and hope for the best," she replied, running her hands over her face and through her hair.

"No," he shook his head. "I mean, once this crisis is over. I'm only now beginning to understand what makes Dean tick. I haven't begun to figure out Sam other than he needs Dean. There's still so much we don't know about them. They need stability so we can all get to know each other, Mary. And we still need to find out who took them and why."

"And how," she remarked as her thoughts again strayed to the vanishing photo image and Dean's childhood pronouncement to social workers that he and his brother traveled 'by light.'

"If it is… your kind of thing, they need to be protected, but they also need a home and someone to take care of them," John said in a quiet voice.

"I know," she answered with a touch of fear.

"I understand that you do what you do because it's for a greater good," John said diplomatically. "These things killed your family and may have taken our children, but you can't drag the boys into this life. I won't allow it."

"They're already in it even if they don't know it," she warned.

John sighed and reached for her hand. He squeezed it gently as he looked into her eyes.

"I'm not trying to fight with you, but I'm telling you I will not let you haul them around this country with you," John said. "I intend to find a place for us to call home. I'll do pretty much anything you tell me to do to protect the boys, but they're going to have a home and go to school and live as normal a life as possible. You are welcome to be there with us, but..."

Mary shook her head. She couldn't think about that right now. John could be the optimist. He had the benefit of so much ignorance. He knew a little about monsters and ghosts, but not how many there were, how often they struck. He knew enough to fear the dark, but he still had the ability to think in terms of normal and happy life. She envied him that. She hated herself for not possessing that skill. She knew she had given up on her boys as dead because she knew about the evil and vile things that preyed on families. She always wanted them to be alive, but when all the spells, all the scrying and all the psychics failed to turn them up, she was certain there was only one reason: They were dead. John never accepted that. She chalked it up to denial of her world and the evil that lurked in the rest of it. He just never gave up on the foolish hope that his boys were alive somewhere. That damn stubborn Marine temperament, the one that she admired and made her loath him some days, was what found her boys ultimately. But it couldn't protect them forever.

"I can't think beyond the next few hours right now," she offered.

"Fine," he sighed. "I just wanted you to know that I am thinking about it, a lot. I'll be making decisions as well. I'll tell you what they are, but unless you can prove to me that they will result in harm absolutely coming to the boys, I'm going forward with whatever I choose for the boys and me."

Mary said nothing. She didn't want to fight. She didn't want to argue. She didn't even want to disagree. One reason she fell in love with John originally was his determination and his reliability. She knew he would be a good provider and protector. He was kind and dependable; he believed in routine that bred a sense of comfort and stability—all the things that she lacked in her childhood. He had a sweet and tender side, which was balanced nicely by his fierceness and pigheadedness. She knew he loved the boys and would do anything for them. She also knew he still loved her. She wasn't sure anymore how she felt. The years since their family was torn apart were hard and cold. She feared it had made her the same.

"I keep thinking how I didn't hug him," she said suddenly as a sob welled up in her chest. "I don't care that he might not have liked it, but I shouldn't have been so nervous. I should have hugged Dean, the first moment I saw him again, but I didn't and now… If Dean doesn't… What if I never get a chance to…"

"Hey, no, don't do this," John said, putting his arm around her. "Dean's gonna be alright. The doctors are going to take good care of him. Sam and Dean are back with us and we're both gonna take care of them. You'll have a lot more chances to hug him and do all those mother things that embarrass a teenage boy, Mary."

She sniffled and nodded reluctantly. She wasn't as sure as her husband, but his faith felt and sounded strong enough for her to lean on it at that moment. She had not prayed in years, but she closed her eyes and asked anyone who might be listening for a good break—not for her, but for her son. Life had not been easy or kind to any of the Winchesters, but it seemed Dean had taken the brunt of it for the last decade. He had earned a reprieve, in her heart and mind.

"Do you remember the night Dean was born?" Mary asked softly.

"Yeah," John smiled. "Brutally cold. You called me at the garage just after lunch that afternoon and said you were in labor."

"You were so nervous when you got to the house," she recalled. "I thought it was better if I drove to the hospital."

John nodded and chuckled at the memory. She had suggested it, but he pulled himself together fairly quickly. It was a long afternoon and even longer night as the contractions increased, but the baby still seemed reluctant to meet the world until nearly the stroke of midnight.

"I remember being amazed that he was so tiny," John choked up, the memory of the small, scrawny creature laying in his wife's arms filled his head. "I mean, considering how big you looked… I, uh… I mean…"

"Stop," Mary shook her head and smiled sadly at him. "I know what you meant. At least you were smart enough back then to not call me fat."

"Remember how fascinated you were with his fingers and toes?" John sighed. "You kept unwrapping him from his blanket to touch them and run your fingers over them. You kept saying 'look how little and perfect they are.' I agreed, but I thought you'd lost your mind during your 12-hour labor."

"Oh, what about your big observation?" she scoffed but not unkindly. "As I marveled at our son's digits, you look at him naked and smiled saying 'well, he's all there.'"

John chuckled painfully as he nodded. He stood by his assessment. Fingers and toes and all parts being present and accounted for was important.

"He stared at us with those big eyes," Mary recalled. "It's like he knew that we had no idea what we were doing."

"We didn't do so bad," John said then shivered, "while we had the chance."

They fell silent, each torturing themselves privately for what they might have done different to make this reunion occur sooner or, better yet, never have been needed in the first place. After several moments of sad silence, Mary spoke.

"Do you think he'll forgive us?" she asked. "After this is over, do you think he'll let us be his parents? He's so angry and distrusting."

"Don't think it's really anger at us," John replied. "I think Bobby got it right: Dean's scared. He's lashing out in defense not in offense. He needs us, Mary. They both do. Dean hasn't had anyone looking out for him, and Sam's only had Dean. I told Dean, when we were out in the backyard, that I was going to prove to him that he can trust us and that we love him. We just have to make good on that. He's a tough kid, which got him through things I don't think we want to know but will have to ask about anyway. That's also going to make it very hard for him to give up being the one who makes decisions for him and Sam. He grew up too fast, and we're going to have to learn how to parent someone who doesn't remember what it means to have one of those, much less two."

John knew he was making assumptions about Mary's future role in their lives, but the concern in her voice and the worry in her eyes convinced him that her days of wandering the back roads of American in search of shadow-dwelling foes were over once again.

"What about Sammy?" she wondered. "He seems to be adjusting to us as his parents much easier. Or is that just the calm before the storm?"

"No, I think we're okay on that front," John replied. "Sammy's had a parent all these years in Dean. He's just slowly shifting that responsibility off his brother's shoulders. I think he'll always look to his brother for guidance and approval, but he's smart kid. I think he understands that Dean needs this break."

"When did you get so smart about people?" she wondered. Her husband wasn't known for his people skills.

"Uh, when I started listening to Bobby," he admitted sheepishly.

**oOoOoOo**


	10. Chapter 10

**oOoOoOo**

Bobby stood in the window looking at the small head catching the afternoon's sunshine. Sam had been sitting on the bottom step of the front porch since they arrived back at the house. The boy was scared and crying but didn't want to show Bobby. He gave the kid some space. He also left a can of orange soda in the shade of the top step. It sat there, sweating, and untouched. Bobby figured he would give the boy another half hour before he called him in. He didn't expect to hear anything from John or Mary anytime soon.

To use the time, Bobby returned to the library to work on his current case and research project: The Winchester Boys. John's disclosure that the photo of Sam had faded as though it never existed was a tricky one. He didn't doubt the man. How could he, seeing as it was that photo that kicked open the door to finding the boys? But it made no sense that it was gone now. So Bobby was backtracking, talking to anyone who saw the photo to see if that helped any.

Jenkins, the one who developed the film roll, claimed he hadn't noted anything odd with his machine when he fed the film into it and swore that regardless of the quality of the photos, he expected Bobby to pay for the rush job. Bobby hung up on him after a few choice words then returned to his notes. He got the number of the grocery store where John first spotted his boys. The assistant manager and resident numbskull, Chris, vaguely recalled talking to someone about the kid he called Oliver, but was not sure if he had seen a picture when he did. The nearly two weeks since they spoke was apparently a few too many bong hits ago to be a lucid memory.

The school inquiry was where things got interesting. Bobby located Sister Constance, the secretary/nun who maintained that the boy in the photo (and yes, she recalled it) did not attend her school. Her asserted ownership of the institution wreaked of being passed over for a Mother Superior posting in Bobby's mind. He next asked to speak to the nun who had given John the tip about the grocery store, Sister Gabriela. Sister Mother-Superior-Wanna-Be was tart with that request. Her response was definite and unwavering: There was no one employed at the school in any capacity named Gabriela.

"Balls," he said as he hung up the phone.

**oOoOoOo**

Sam shivered in the heat of the day. He sat on the bottom step and hugged his knees tightly. His stomach felt sick, and his head hurt. His eyes were all gummy, too. He used the sleeve of his T-shirt to wipe his nose.

He was afraid. It probably made him a baby, and Dean would tell him not to cry or people would think he was weak then try to mess with him, but Dean wasn't there. Dean was hurt.

Except Dean never got hurt, never even admitted it when he got sick. Even when Dean was sick, he never acted sick. Sam got sick sometimes, and he tried to be like Dean and not to act like it, but Dean always knew. He took care of Sam in those moments—stealing packs of crackers from the store and getting him water or soup out of the kitchen even when it was supposed to be locked and off-limits to the kids in the group home. Dean always said taking care of Sam was his job and something like a little padlock or no money weren't going to stop him from doing it.

Sam tried to make his job taking care of Dean, but his big brother never let him.

Sam scuffed his feet in the dirt. He kept thinking about what he saw earlier as he ran down the stairs when they were supposed to be going to the diner. He had washed his hands and changed his shirt, then he heard Bobby yell for his parents. Sam was just pulling his clean T-shirt over his head, feeling excited because they were going out to eat as a family. Dean had agreed to go and Sam was so happy that maybe his big brother was over being mad and worried about everything.

Then Sam heard Mom scream. His legs carried him down the stairs, jumping the last three to get to the bottom faster. He stumbled into the kitchen to see Dad hoisting Dean in his arms like a baby. Dean wasn't moving. Mom and crying, and Bobby grabbed his car keys and shouted something, but what Sam remembered most was that Dean didn't answer as Sam shouted his name.

Dean always answered when Sam yelled for him. Always.

Only, this time, he didn't. He didn't even look up.

In fact, he looked dead.

Sam's stomach flipped over at that thought but no matter what he did, he couldn't get the picture out of his head. And now, no one wouldn't let him see Dean. They were treating Sam like a baby. Dean did that and Sam hated it when he did. He twisted in his seat, feeling sweat rolling down his back, as he looked angrily toward the house. The door was closed, but the windows were open so he would hear when the phone rang. They promised they would call as soon as there was news, and they promised they would speak to Sam before Bobby.

If they didn't, Sam had a plan. Dean said he always had to have a plan, just in case. Well, Sam's plan was simple. He now knew the way to the hospital. If he didn't get a call by the time he thought he should, he was walking back into town and going to the hospital himself.

**oOoOoOo**

Two hours after Dean was taken to surgery, a graying man in his early 50s arrived. He wore surgical scrubs and a pair of glasses on a chain around his neck. He carried an overlarge envelop in his hands as he stepped into the room and held out his hand.

"Mr. and Mrs. Winchester?" he began. "I'm Dr. Burton. I performed the surgery on your son, Dean. He's doing well."

Both parents relaxed and clasped each other's hands in relief as Burton continued.

"He suffered a ruptured spleen which necessitated the removal of the organ," the doctor said. "The internal bleeding placed sufficient pressure on the chest cavity that it collapsed his left lung. Due to the extreme blood loss, he went into hypovolemic shock which stopped his heart." Mary gasped and pressed a shaking hand to her mouth as John squeezed her other hand tighter. "We restarted it once we clamped down the bleeding."

Burton reached a strong and warm hand forward and placed it on Mary's shoulder. He looked both parents firmly in the eye and offered them a tired but reassuring smile.

"He pulled through like a trooper," the doctor reported. "We're running a lot of tests to make sure there are no lingering side effects. So far, everything looks good. In fact, I wish I was as strong as this kid of yours."

"He'll bounce back from this?" John asked.

"I'm optimistic," Burton answered. "He's being moved to a room now. You should be able to see him in a few minutes after he is settled. Normally, he would go to the recovery room until he was fully out of the anesthesia, but he needs to be in a private room so we are bringing him directly to the critical care unit."

"Critical?" Mary asked, sitting up eager to go see her child. "You said the surgery went well."

"It did," Burton replied. "However, his heart did stop, and he lost a lot of blood. Add to that the compromised state of his immune system, and we're going to need to watch him carefully for the next 48 hours. His body has been through trauma and without his spleen, he's at risk for more infections."

"More?" John asked. "What's infections does he have now?"

Burton sighed. He expected this. Parents were usually the last to know with teenagers, he knew from experience.

"Has Dean complained of fatigue, fever, sore throat and a general sick feeling recently?" Burton asked.

Both shrugged. He'd been listless and cranky, but they assumed the behavior was due to the upheavals in his life.

"Dean has Mononucleosis, which caused his spleen to become inflamed and was the cause of the rupture," Burton explained oblivious to the reason for their blank and uncomfortable stares. "I wouldn't beat yourselves up as parents too much. He's a teenager, and school is about to let out for the summer so it's no surprise he didn't tell you he felt ill. What kid wants to ruin his vacation with being made to stay in bed? Now, in the interest of saving another parent from the day you are having, does Dean have a girlfriend right now or has he had one in the last few weeks?"

Again, both John and Mary shrugged. They had no way of knowing. John spoke up first.

"He didn't tell us about one," he replied in a calculated way. "His brother Sam would know; they're very close."

"Close as in share the same soda can close?" Burton asked.

John nodded as he recalled seeing Sam sipping from Dean's milkshake the night they stayed at Jim Murphy's home two weeks ago.

"You need to bring him in to be tested," Burton continued. "Mono can be passed through saliva, that's why I asked about a girlfriend. It's known as the kissing disease because that is a common way teenagers infect each other. In general, mono isn't dangerous. We don't treat the virus, we treat the symptoms and they go away on their own, but you have to be careful because as the body fights the disease, the spleen can become enlarged. A blow to the abdomen, no matter how slight, when the spleen is enlarged can result in a rupture as you found today."

John cringed. He had done this; he hadn't intended it, but he was the one who took the kid out back to spar. The doctor then sighed and pulled out an x-ray from the envelope he carried.

"Now, I noted no scars on Dean's chest during the surgery and even a few of those would not explain this," he said and held up an x-ray of Dean's rib cage.

"What the hell is that?" John gaped as he stared.

Small, intricate carvings covered Dean's ribs and sternum. They looked like Egyptian hieroglyphs to John. He looked to Mary, who appeared as bewildered and amazed as himself.

"We have no idea," Burton replied. "I considered sending a copy of the x-rays to a colleague of mine at Duke Medical, but frankly I'm certain he'll think it's a practical joke. I've been a doctor for 30 years, and I have never seen anything remotely like this."

Mary stared at the sigils, unlike any she had ever seen, and made a mental note (as if she could forget something like this) to get Bobby to lift the medical records and do his own research. Although the marks were etched into her son's bones, there was something about them that made her think of a pentagram and other protection symbols she knew. Despite their prevalence and placement, she did not feel they were sinister.

"Well, it's a hell of a mystery," Burton sighed and replaced the picture. "From the look of these scratches up close, they've been there for a long while and do not seem to be doing him any harm. For as medically fascinating as they are, my recommendation is pay them no attention, and frankly, I don't know what to tell you about them as I simply know nothing other than they exist."

Both parents nodded, dumbstruck on how else to respond. The important thing, both knew, was that Dean was recovering.

"Now, when you see Dean, you'll have to wear masks and a gown to keep the environment around him as sterile as possible until he's past these critical hours," Burton continued. "Once we get his white cell count back to reasonable levels, that precaution won't be necessary. Oh, and adults only allowed in the critical care unit so your other son won't be permitted to see his brother in there."

"Sam is going to want to see him," Mary offered. "John's right, they're very, very close."

"I'm sorry, the rules are absolute," Burton shook his head. "If Dean continues to improve, he'll be moved to another room. Your other son can visit him then. We're looking at 4 to 6 weeks of recovery from the surgery, which means a lot of bed rest and taking it easy. That means no summer camps or sports or frolicking with girlfriends, or whatever he does when school is out. He looks like he's an active kid so you'll need to lay down the law about resting. Now, the nurses will get you suited up to go see him. I'll be here for a while longer if you have any questions."

"Thank you," Mary said. "Oh, Doctor… I'm sure this is a very shallow question, but how much of a scar will he have?"

John looked at her oddly. She shrugged.

"I don't know how he'll react if he has a foot-long scar," she said. "He's a young teenager. I know it doesn't matter to us, but it might to him. He's… confident in himself. I just want to know if we need to prepare him for looking like he got into a fight with a chainsaw."

Burton nodded. It was not a shallow question. He had many parents gasp in horror and wonder about plastic surgery after their children had accidents that left zipper marks on their bodies. At least this one was asking upfront how to help the child deal with the mark rather than immediately thinking of putting him under the knife to make it go away with plastic surgery.

"It's four inches long in the middle of his abdomen," he said. "It will fade some with time, but he will always be able to see it. It's straight and will likely heal pink for a while. After that, it will fade to white most likely. He has a light complexion so that should help with the fading."

"He'll find a way to use it to his advantage," John offered and shrugged as both look oddly at him. "Scars attract attention—female attention. Call it a hunch, but I think he'll be fine with it eventually, Mary. Let's go see Dean and then we can call Sam."

**oOoOoOo**

The machines hummed and beeped quietly in the oppressive hush of the room. The rustle of the sterile gowns John and Mary were required to wear sounded harsh in the near silence. Mary walked quickly to the bedside and touched Dean's face, tears dripping from her eyes getting caught in the mask covering her mouth and nose.

He was pale and looked hollow. The smudges under his eyes were darker than ever and his freckles stood out prominently. He appeared much younger than his 14 years and as frail as he had the night he was born.

John heard Mary's shuddering breath as he held in his own. He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder then quickly embraced her as she turned and folded herself into him. She trembled as he held her and muttered reassuring words that echoed what the doctor had told them several minutes before they suited up to step into the room: Dean was going to be fine.

"What else is going to happen to them?" she wept.

John's heart ached for her. He was reeling from the shock of the emergency surgery and seeing his son in a hospital bed twice withing two weeks, but seeing his wife cry was nearly as hard. Mary cried when the boys first disappeared. She screamed and she sobbed and demanded answers and results. Then, she put on her warrior face again—the one she was raised to wear when faced with tragedy and adversity. Mary simply didn't cry anymore, not since someone stole her sons and took her heart in the process. John held his wife and felt her breaking in his arms.

A nurse entered the room to check the monitors and said Dean would be asleep for a while still. She recommended they prepare themselves for a long night if they were intending to remain. They would be allowed to go into the room for a few minutes at a time, but they could not stay in the room with Dean the whole time. John nodded, understandingly, and led Mary out.

They agreed, rather easily, to divide themselves between the boys. Mary would stay at the hospital mainlining coffee to watch over Dean. John would return to Bobby's to be with Sam. They parted with a promise that Mary would call as soon as Dean was awake or if anything happened before then. John felt confident it would not, but did not disagree. She was raw at that moment and a fight wouldn't accomplish anything. He privately commended himself for figuring that much out. In recent years, he had only reached those conclusions after the blow ups occurred.

**oOoOoOo**

Deep, colorful hues were seeping into the western sky as John parked the car in front of the house. He was barely out of the driver's seat when he was accosted by a small and formidable whirlwind of questions spewing from a skinny boy with a very determined and bitchy expression.

"You said you would call," Sam stormed. "You didn't call. Where is Dean? When can I see him? Is he really hurt? Did the doctors fix him? Where is Mom? Why didn't you call? Are you bringing me to see Dean? Why aren't you answering me?"

Rather than respond, John simply lifted the boy and hugged him tearfully and gratefully as he carried him to the house. Unlike the embrace with his brother hours earlier, Sam did not thrash or hit him to be let go. He also did not stop talking and asking questions.

"Why are you crying?" Sam asked, tears streaking down his reddened cheeks. "Is Dean dead? Where is he?"

"No, buddy," John assured him as he climbed the steps and entered the house. "Dean's not dead. He's going to be fine. The doctors had to do surgery so he's gotta stay in the hospital for a few days to heal and get medicine so he gets better. I didn't call because I was coming back here to tell you in person and see how you were doing. Your mom is going to stay with Dean tonight so it'll be just you, me and Bobby for dinner, okay?"

Bobby stood in the kitchen and nodded, appreciating the bare-bones update. Worry was etched deeply into the hunter's eyes.

"Can we go back to the hospital now so I can see him?" Sam asked as John put him down. "I'm ready to go right now. We don't have to wait."

John sighed and explained the no kids rule to Sam. He protested, loudly with another deluge of tears and a few colorfully disgruntled words he no doubt learned from his brother. He insisted he had to see Dean.

"Dean's not gonna like if they don't let me see him," Sam argued. "He can be a real pain when he doesn't get his way, just you wait. The doctors are not gonna want to take care of him if he gets mad at them. You have to let me go see him so that he behaves. He's gonna want to know where I am, and I need to see him."

The second part of that statement was the real issue, John knew. Sam had never spent a night without his brother at his side. The little boy might be more accepting of the strangers who he now knew as his parents, but his confidence seemed to ebb without his older brother there to reassure him. That added to the child's extreme worry over Dean and was draining to the boy.

"As soon as he's awake and feels up to it, we'll have him call you," John said, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Right now, he's still asleep from the operation. After that, he's gonna need a lot of rest, but I will make sure to tell him how much you want to see him."

Sam looked like he wanted to protest but after a long minute of scowling and glaring he eventually nodded. As long as his father kept his word, things would be fine.

If not, Sam told himself, he already had his plan.

**oOoOoOo**

The world was fuzzy and dark. Dean struggled to open his eyes, but they were welded shut. Apparently, there was cotton stuffed in his ears because he couldn't hear anything clearly. Probably had a wad or two in his mouth as well from the way it felt.

He wasn't certain where he was, but he suspected it was a hospital. Why he was there was a little vague too, but he had a flash of rain and cars in the street. He wondered if he got hit while riding back to the church jail/group home from school. His heart began to race as he couldn't remember if Sam was with him. He liked to ride on the handlebars sometimes rather than the seat, claiming he couldn't see anything when Dean would stand up to peddle. Of course, when Sam sat on the handlebars, Dean could barely see where he was going. Still, they'd only fallen once, and it was kind of funny. Sammy only got a little scrape on his elbow, but he got a lot of puddle water in his mouth. The look on his face as he spit it out was hilarious.

But where was he now? If Sam was hurt, it was Dean's fault.

He fought hard to wake so he could figure out what had happened, but he surrendered quickly as he had no strength and felt numb in an odd way.

Of course, odd covered a lot of this day. Dean was certain he had a concussion despite the fact that his head didn't hurt. He figured he must have had his brains splattered on the road, which he hoped didn't mean the same thing happened to Sam. After all, if his head wasn't turned into pudding, how could he explain the strange dream that kept rolling through his head?

Dean felt a different kind of ache in his chest, but he knew it wasn't from the accident. It was the dreams. He hadn't had these dreams in many years, longer than he could recall even. He dreamed he was home, or with his family again, and not just Sam. He could see his parents' faces again. Of course, it was not the happy sort of dreams he used to have (even though those used to make him cry, but only because they weren't real); no, this dream was awful. His mother and father found him and didn't want him. They hated him. He felt tears leak from his sealed eyes, and he felt more than he heard himself whimper.

A voice he didn't recognize said his name, then there was a burning sensation in his arm. After that, the dark world started swirling again until he couldn't think at all.

**oOoOoOo**

The 48 hours following the surgery raced by in a blur. Mary spent the first night at the hospital. John spelled her the second night. Dean woke up several times but was not lucid during any of them. The doctors explained the heavy painkillers and exhaustion (due to the blood loss and the trauma) were the cause. They assured the Winchesters that Dean's latest round of tests showed his white cell count was improving as the mono was abating. His fever was gone so that he could be moved from the critical care unit to a regular room.

During Mary's watch, she only left Dean's room to get coffee and to make calls every few hours to report in at the house. In her call that morning, she assured Sam (multiple times) that Dean was much better and that he could come see his brother that day, as soon as Dean could stay awake long enough for a visitor. Sam was not convinced and let her know that if she didn't call with that information soon he had his own plan, and he would implement it. What that meant or what the plan entailed she did not know, but she gave John a heads up to be on the lookout for… anything.

She hung up the payphone (pediatric rooms in the hospital aggravatingly didn't have phones) and walked tiredly down the hall, massaging her stiff neck and rubbing her hands over her weary face. She was tired of the hospital, of waiting and of everything getting in the way of her putting her family back together. That mishmash of emotions radiated from her face through a bitchy scowl that had nurses and doctors ducking to stay out of her path. Unaware of how she appeared, she entered Dean's room and was startled to find her son awake. He locked eyes with her and appeared fearful. She gasped as she hurried to the bed, shaming herself for leaving him alone. She saw heart-wrenching despair in his eyes as he looked at her and blinked furiously as unruly tears erupted from his eyes. He turned his face away from her quickly.

"Oh, Dean," Mary said. "I didn't know you were awake."

"Obviously," he said in a small voice. "Why am I here?"

He had awoken and thought for a few long and confused minutes that he was still in Chicago, but as the cobwebs cleared from his head he noted that the hallways weren't filled with nearly enough screaming or other psychotic freaks to be a hospital in Chicago. That's when the previous days all tumbled back into place. He was in South Dakota, but his family wasn't with him.

"You were sick and your spleen was enlarged," she explained. "It ruptured. You had surgery to repair that damage, but you're okay now."

Dean shivered. He didn't feel okay, especially as his cloudy memory showed him flashes of sparing with John (which was actually kind of cool because he did good... until the crying part, but he could ignore that) and then he remembered being in the kitchen when it started growing dim before everything went dark. The next thing he was aware of was waking up in this strange room by himself. His lashes were thickly matted with tears as he looked warily at Mary. She looked displeased and sighed like she was pissed.

"What do you want?" he asked, swiping his hand clumsily across his watering eyes.

"Want?" she repeated. "Nothing. I mean, well, I've been waiting for you to wake up."

Dean scoffed and turned his head away from her. She looked at his hurt expression and realized the problem. He had woken up, alone, and scared; he thought she had left him, that John had left him. He might be a cocky, confident, standoffish teenager, but what she saw before her was a hurt, young boy who needed his family and felt more alone than she could possibly imagine. As if to confirm, her suspicions and fears, Dean dismissed her.

"You don't have to stay," he said, coldly, still trying to hide his tears. "Go ahead and leave."

"Oh, baby," she said softly, rubbing his arm, "I don't want to leave."

Dean said nothing. Mary held her breath, waiting for a response. When none came, tears slid liberally down her face.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't here when you woke up," she apologized. "I was down the hall calling your father and brother." She saw him perk slightly at hearing Sam mentioned and knew he had not tuned her out entirely. "I was only gone for a few minutes. I'm here now."

"I don't need you," Dean lied as the exhaustion began to overtake him again. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not, but you will be," she assured him. "Your father and I are going to take care of you and see that you get better. We just got you back. We aren't ever letting anything take you away from us again."

"Whatever," he grumbled. "Where's Sam?"

"With your father and Bobby," she said. "They're coming to see you in a bit. Sam really missed you."

"Bobby coming, too?" he asked.

His desire to see the grouchy, old hunter was apparent and led even more weight to John's argument that they settle in Sioux Falls so that the boys had a larger support system than just their parents. Mary was growing on the idea as well. While she and Bobby did not agree on everything, she did not doubt his knowledge and prowess as a hunter. Having someone with his skill near her family was reassuring even if it looked like her oldest son preferred the man's company to that of his parents at the moment. Well, she reasoned, Dean met the guy and called him a crazy uncle so that would be his new title; Mary felt certain the hunter would accept it, too.

"Of course, Bobby's coming," she said. "He's been worried about you."

Dean nodded slightly and continued to stare down at the sheets. Mary watched him, her heart breaking at the sad and lonely expression on his face. The pain in her chest at seeing it made up her mind. Without a second thought, she did what she had intended the moment he got out of the car at Bobby's two weeks earlier. She gently climbed onto the bed to sit beside him. Ignoring his shocked expression, she carefully put her arms around him, cradling his head against her. Her tears persisted as he tried to move away, but their close proximity and his own body aches held him in place.

"I don't care of you want this, Dean," she cooed softly. "I am your mother, and I have been waiting 10 years to hold you in my arms again. It's been agony keeping my distance from you for the last two weeks, and I can't take it another second."

She hugged him as tightly as she dared then kissed his cheek before resting her chin along his head. She stroked his soft, spiky hair slowly and rocked him gently. She felt him shudder as he choked back a sob.

"I have missed you so much, sweetheart," she said gently, her voice saturated with emotion. "I never stopped crying inside. When I lost you and your brother, part of me just died. You and Sammy were my world and suddenly my world was gone. I couldn't find you, and it made me feel dead inside. Then your father found you both, and my heart started beating again."

"I'm not the little kid that you lost," he said sniffling dejectedly.

"Yes, you are," she told him. "You're Dean Winchester, my son."

"No, I mean…," Dean began.

"I know what you meant, but you're wrong," she said. "My little boy grew up into a very capable (and a bit cocky) young man, but you're still my Dean. You will always be my Dean—not matter what. I know we can't get back the years we lost, but we have the rest of our lives to make new memories and that's more important."

"What if I'm not someone you want to know?" he asked in a small and scared voice.

"Oh honey, you are," she assured him. "I don't care about anything you've done to get by and survive while you and your brother were missing. Sweetie, you did the most important and amazing thing for me, and I love you all the more for doing it: You took care of yourself and Sammy. That wasn't supposed to be your job and no one told you how, but you did it. You did it well, and your father and I are so very proud of you for it, Dean."

He trembled in her arms and twisted the sheets in his fingers nervously.

"But there are things you won't like," he said. "Like my teachers always hate me. I got sent to court once. And I had a…"

"Girlfriend?" she teased. He looked at her with a scrunched brow. Mary shrugged and smirked. "Well, someone gave you mono. Was she in your class?"

Dean's face burned hotly red, but she suspected it was more at her forgiving him so readily than for the mention of a girlfriend. Mary chuckled, not unkindly and cupped his cheek lovingly.

"Well, I hope she didn't get too ill from her virus, but I don't appreciate her making my son sick," Mary said matter-of-factly. "You know that you've broken up with her by the mere fact that you've moved and changed your name, right?"

Dean looked back at her strangely and blinked at the new, lighter shift in the conversation.

"She didn't know my name anyway," Dean replied. "I made one up, and she thought I was 16."

"How old was she?" Mary wondered.

"Sixteen," Dean offered proudly. "Cheerleader over at a private Catholic school. Her name was Karen… or Sharon… No, maybe Sheryl."

Mary stared back at him as worry washed over her features. Accepting her little boy wasn't a little boy anymore was one thing. Realizing he was a Casanova who lied about his name and age to get tongue time with a 16-year-old cheerleader rocked her back on her heels.

"Uh, so do we need to have a talk about…," she began uncomfortably.

"Sex? Oh, don't bother," Dean waved her off. "I know all about it." Mary blanched with shock and fear. "When they put you in group homes, you get the full talk from your caseworker so then they can tell you about perverts and what they might do. Sam knows, too. He threw up afterward. I don't think he'll want a girlfriend until he's really old, like 30."

Mary chuckled at both his words and their frank delivery. She wasn't sure how she felt about his knowledge and lack of embarrassment about discussing sex with his mother, but figured part of his comfort was their lack of any close relationship at that moment. She suspected much of his bravado would evaporate once they fell into a more typical parent/child routine.

"But you didn't get sick hearing about sex?" she asked.

"Me?" Dean said and tried to shrug but wince in pain at the attempt. "Nah. Sammy's just too young to understand. He still thinks girls are icky. He'll probably like the type who spend all day in the library; probably the only place he'll be able to meet one anyway with his head stuck in a book all the time."

Mary pulled him close again as she shook her head. They were far from fixed, far from healed, but he was at least talking to her. Why he was and whether it was simply part of some plan to test her, she did not know. Nor did she care. Dean was talking to her, not at her. That was something.

"You know," he said half-heartedly, "I don't really like hugging all that much."

Mary noted that despite his words, he did not move away or release his grasp of her. She took his words for precisely what they sounded like: teenage bluster. That she could combat. Taking a page from her husband's book, she chose to barrel right at the problem with a full frontal assault.

"Well, it was either give you a hug, or I was going to bathe you," Mary remarked casually and smiled boldly as his eyes went wide with the horror and embarrassment she had expected when discussing the topic of sex.

"What?" he gasped and gaped. "No. No, you're not…. No, not ever…"

"What?" Mary smiled back at him, enjoying this form of discomfort and panic on his face. "Now you're shy?"

"You can't…," he shook his head as felt himself blush deeply. "I'm not a baby. I'm not gonna… You can't." He glared at her hotly with wide and wary eyes then scowled as he realized she was laughing. Even Dean knew he sounded childish when he told her: "You're not funny."

"But you are," she said as she tapped his nose lightly. "That's the same face and protest you used to give me when we used to play '_I got your nose_.'"

"Well," Dean turned his head and tried to hide his own smirk, "you can't do that either. I'm not a baby. I'm grown up now."

Mary leaned over and defiantly kissed his head again as she pulled him into another only mildly protested hug.

"But you will always be my baby, Dean," she assured him. "Now, don't worry. I promise I won't try to bathe you. I'll still try to dress you, but…"

"Stop it," he grumbled. "Dress Sammy. He's kind of like a girl. He whines sometimes and if his hair gets any longer, people really will think he is one."

Mary did not bother to scold him. Brothers, she figured, were permitted to pick on each other. Dean's love for Sam was unquestionable. She would just need to make sure their picking and spats didn't go beyond words for a while. Dean, despite his wakefulness, needed time to heal.

In keeping with that need, Mary held him close as they sat quietly. Eventually, she caught him fighting a yawn. Rather than blatantly call him on it, she cradled him in her arms more firmly and started humming softly the song she used to sing to him as a lullaby: _Hey Jude_. It was as if the song possessed some mystical power, or perhaps the programming from his earliest days was still active but just buried deep in his mind. Dean turned his head toward her and yawned again. His lids grew heavy as she continued to hum and stroke his arm gently. She felt the alertness in his muscles release as he drifted off.

"I will be here when you wake up, sweetheart," she promised him softly. "Sleep well. I love you, Dean."

He nuzzled his face into her neck, the same way he had as a little boy, raising joyous tears in her eyes as he murmured back in a barely audio voice: "Okay, Mom."

**oOoOoOo**


	11. Chapter 11

** UPDATED FOR AUTHOR ENDING NOTES **

Notes: Thanks so much for reading. If you like my writing, please consider checking out my original novel (available in paperback and ebook versions). Links for the novel (Amazon and Barnes & Noble) are on my profile page.

Thanks again to all those who reviewed!

* * *

**oOoOoOo**

Mary's next check in with the house let her know a lot was going on. Bobby had slipped into the hospital file room at some point and lifted Dean's x-rays. He also let her know, without providing any specifics, that the bill got taken care of as well. Hunters were an unlawful bunch for certain, but the services they provided free of charge offset any expenses they sidestepped. While Dean's surgery was not connected to hunting in anyway, Mary felt no remorse about someone getting into the computer system and erasing their bill. She and her parents had done more than enough to earn this reprieve. She'd find some way to explain it to John when he questioned why they never got billed for emergency surgery and a hospital stay. She thought this time he might not even gripe about not having to pay their debt. After all, they were in the process of pulling together the means to set up a home again.

As for her discussion with John (after reporting Dean's status as anxious but improving), her husband let her know his fears that if Sam was kept from his brother much longer, their youngest would become a flight risk. Bobby caught the kid measuring the length of bed sheets and doing calculations. The hunter suspected the boy was creating an escape kit to include a homemade rope to rappelle out of his window. Therefore, Mary's report that Dean was awake and ready for visitors was a tremendous relief.

Just after the lunch hour, the sound of feet pounding on the tiles filled the hallway, and a skinny boy with floppy, brown hair skidded into view in the doorway of Dean's room. Sam raced inside and prepared to launch himself at Dean's bed but was halted by Mary, who stood up quickly and blocked his tackle.

"Okay, a few rules you have to obey if you want to see Dean," she said, as Sam peeked around her and waved manically at Dean while sporting a grin worthy of a toothpaste commercial. "No pushing, no wrestling, no poking, no hard contact of any kind. Your brother has a lot of stitches and he's sore, no matter what he says. So be very, very gentle, okay?"

Sam nodded then very precisely, almost comically slow, climbed into the bed and put his arms gingerly around his brother and rested his head on Dean's shoulder.

"I'm glad you're getting better," Sam said in small, shaking voice. "I missed you."

"Missed you too, Sammy, now stop being such a girl," Dean said returning the hug with one arm. "Hey, I didn't make you sick, did I?"

"Nope," Sam shook his head. "They said I'm not sick at all so that's why I could come see you. Does it hurt a lot where they cut your guts open?"

Mary hung her head at the discussion but said nothing. Boys, she reminded herself, liked gross things. Dean, as a toddler, had marveled at and had often handed her worms that died and dried up after crawling on the sidewalk at their house. Dead and desiccated things did not bother her, but she still knew it was considered bad form to find them entertaining. The Winchesters would simply need to take lessons in appropriate conversation topics, yet another task for the summer.

"Nah," Dean lied and winced horribly as he stifled a cough. "Barely felt it at all."

"Dean, are you okay?" Mary asked, seeing the tears in his eyes.

He nodded, but Sam was on the job quickly.

"I can help," Sam insisted and reached forward to the small cup of water on the tray table.

Dean looked mortified as Sam held the cup to his lips and tipped it slightly so Dean could drink from it. Mary watched the act, touched by Sam's compassion and gentleness, but she also spotted in Dean's face an expression of rebellion against his obvious vulnerability. As he took a mouthful of water, Mary caught the hint of a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Dean, do not spit that at Sam," Mary said sternly pointing. Sam looked shocked then turned a sour face to his brother. "I said no messing around just yet. You heard me tell Sam he can't roughhouse and that goes for you, too."

Dean swallowed loudly and rolled his eyes, making Sam laugh. As the boys sat sedately on the bed, Sam told Dean everything he had missed, which seemed like a lot to Mary considering their world had been on pause since Dean went to the hospital. Sam, however, was full of details involving maps and distances and some strategy he developed. This, she realized, was part of his elusive 'plan.' What the plan precisely was for was still unclear, but Dean seemed to understand and nodded approvingly as he fought to keep his eyes open to listen to his brother.

John arrived with Bobby in tow a few seconds later explaining Sam sprinted away from them as soon as they got off the elevator. Dean spotted them. He nodded at John hesitantly, mostly out of confused feelings of regret and an urge not to seem weak, then smiled at Bobby beckoning him forward. Mary waved John into the hall.

"How's he doing?" John asked in a low voice.

"Still pretty weak and very tired, which is to be expected, but he just attempted to use himself as a supersoaker on Sam," Mary sighed, her fatigue wearing her patience thin. "I'm thinking we'll need a straight jacket or tranquilizers to keep him still while he heals."

John chuckled, knowing she wasn't kidding but figuring if that was their greatest worry then he would take it without complaint.

"Well, not to add to your worries, but on the way here Sam let me know Dean was scamming some high school girl in Chicago, so that's where he probably picked up mono," John shook his head.

Mary nodded and dismissed that as old news.

"Yeah, he was proud to tell me about it:16-year-old in a Catholic school girl cheerleading uniform," she said then soured as her husband grinned. "Stop being proud, John. He's like this at 14. We need to patrol and monitor our junior Lothario in there from now on. I was a 16-year-old girl once. Let me remind of you something: They have fathers."

John grimaced then nodded, recalling that fact from his own experience. He ran his hand carelessly over his face and told himself to get used to more gray hair appearing shortly. Again, it was a sacrifice he was more than happy to make.

"So he's girl crazy?" he wondered.

"No, he's… girl-educated," Mary sighed running her hands through her hair. "I get the feeling they chase him, not the other way around. He seems to know it and, maybe, expect it. Again, John, stop smirking. In two years, he's going to want a car and be strutting down the halls of the high school without either of us there to restrict his number of admirers or what he does with them."

"Rough life for him," John surmised. "Now, when you say 'we', am I to take it that this means you're looking favorably on my suggestion?"

Mary looked over her shoulder at her two boys sitting in the bed, talking to Bobby as though they had known him their entire lives. They were certainly comfortable around him, and he seemed to understand them as though he had been around kids forever.

"I think the universe gave us a second chance, and I would be a damned fool to let it pass," she said. "You and I, though, we have to…"

"Figure out what 'you and I' actually means now, yeah," he nodded. "One upheaval at a time, right? First, objective, get him well enough to leave the hospital."

"Second, find a place to live," she sighed. "They might like it there, but we can't stay at Bobby's forever."

"He got a line on a house a mile down the road from him," John said. "Says it was originally a small Catholic church that never had much of a parish so it closed, but it's still technically on hallowed ground. I figured that would meet with your approval—and Bobby said the county records show no burials on the property either. I took a look at the place, and as a dwelling, it's not too bad. It needs a little work, and we don't exactly have a line of credit, but Bobby knows the owner, a Mr. Smith, since their properties abut each other. He introduced me to the guy."

"And?" Mary asked.

"Well, I don't like him much as a person," John shrugged. "Short guy with little man's disease, I guess. He sort struts acts like he's god's gift or something. Laughs at his own jokes, that kind of blowhard."

Mary rolled her eyes. In her experience, the only men who had an issue with that kind of behavior were those who felt it was infringing on their own territory. But she said nothing. John certainly didn't suffer in the height category, and joking wasn't something that came naturally to him, but if Mr. Smith wasn't going to be living with them, they didn't need to like him.

"But he's willing to help us out," John relented. "He's offered a rent-to-own deal if we agree to fix the place up. It's not huge, but it's got two floors, three bedrooms—all a little small—but it's quiet there, and Bobby says it's a safe place. Kitchen's pretty outdated and the roof needs replacing this summer, but I can take care of that. Bobby said he'll watch Sam if you want to go take a look while I stay with Dean this evening."

Mary shook her head stating she didn't need reassurance; she was sold. If Bobby said it was safe, that was good enough for her. Considering the hovels she'd lived in during recent years, any place with running water or something you could say resembled a kitchen was a huge step up.

"Good," John smiled guiltily, "because I already signed papers, and Sam went with me to look at it again this morning. He's placed dibs on a room, which apparently he wants to paint orange."

Mary blinked at the color choice. She was not going to argue. If orange made the boy happy, then he could have a citrus room.

"He's also picked out a spot for a garden," John informed her with a dry chuckle. "He said he's never had a yard, and he wants to grow a Christmas tree—but we can't cut it down, ever; it just has to grow in the yard. He also wants to grow a tomato. Just one, apparently, but he's very interested in planting it."

Mary smiled and shook her head. A garden? That was something she did not have in Lawrence. She didn't have time. Her boys were too young and took up too much time to tend a garden. Well, she decided, if Sammy wanted to grow a forest and have a garden then that would be her project with him. They'd plant a wall of pine trees and grow him the biggest heirloom tomato possible. What she knew so far of her eldest, she couldn't see Dean working on a green thumb, but she would find something to do with him, maybe build on his martial arts training (she had a few moves of her own) and workout with him. Learning Kenpo Karate from his mother would certainly leave him speechless. John, she knew, had plans for his own projects with his sons. He had mentioned rebuilding his Impala to its 'proper' condition and hoped one (or both) of the boys would be interested in helping him.

"So?" John asked expectantly.

"So it sounds like Sammy gets a garden," she said and offered her husband an uncomplicated smile.

As she did, she noticed, for the first time since the boys dropped back into their lives, that John was looking at her in a way she had not seen in years—since their earliest days of dating, in fact. Again, the question of how she and John were going to proceed with each other hung on the air. Before either could remark on it further, they were summoned back into the room with a more urgent need.

"Hey, Mom," Sam called. "Dean and I need, uh, cheeseburgers and strawberry milkshakes."

"Sam," Dean groaned and glared.

"What?" Sam turned and shrugged. "That's what you said to say." Dean grumbled and spoke under his breath. "Oh, I mean, since Dean can't have anything but crappy hospital food, I want a cheeseburger and a strawberry milkshake. And I want to eat it here."

Dean dropped his head back on his pillows and shook his head as he closed his eyes.

"Sam, you and me," Dean grumbled, "we need to work on our communication. Dude, we really should be better at this by now."

**OOoOoOo**

*** **_**EPILOGUE ***_

"Enough," Mary said firmly as she stopped the car. "Sam, show Dean where you planted your garden. Dean, you've been out of the hospital for two weeks. You are more than capable of standing up and walking around during the day. The doctor did not order you to remain in bed or on the couch all day, every day. And he certainly never said you needed a hammock to heal properly. I'm certain I would remember him saying that."

Dean scoffed and shook his head in a definite and calculated fashion.

"Spoken like someone who has the benefit of not missing a major organ," he replied in a forcefully beleaguered voice.

"You're doing fine," she told him flatly. "Of course, if you truly are suffering, we can go back to the hospital and get you hooked up to IVs and have a catheter put back in."

He scowled and climbed out of the car, moving slower than he would like but certainly not at the death's door pace he had opted for earlier that morning. Sam raced around the car to meet him and start dragging him to the backyard. Dean, however, paused and leaned back into the car to speak to her.

"Hey Mom," he said, "you know if this whole mother/housewife thing you've got going ever gets boring, you've got potential as a prison warden. I've seen 'Cool Hand Luke' three times. You could run a southern chain gang."

He smirked and tapped the top of the car then turned his back on her, leaning on the vehicle while Sam tugged on his arm trying to pull him forward. Mary took a deep breath; it was already nearly 87 degrees and it was barely 8 a.m. Temperatures were going to soar through the day and she did not want to add tempers to that. She climbed out of the car and walked to her oldest son's side. She placed her arm around his shoulders and offered him frank smile.

"Then as you've seen the movie so many times, you'll understand this," she said. "What we've got here is failure to communicate." Dean bit his lip to keep from laughing as she nudged him off the car in the direction of his brother. "Now, I told you go to see your brother's garden."

"Yeah, hurry up," Sam grinned and pulled Dean forward like a sled dog hauling its rig.

"Okay," Dean said over his shoulder toward Mary. "I'll be in the back with the Jolly Green Giant here, but if I suddenly get…"

"Dean," Mary commanded. "Go."

Dean plodded around the house with Sam, beginning a slew of movie quotes—Mary considered it a victory that none that she heard needed a censor.

She entered the house to note the smell of fresh paint. John had been at the house late the night before and out the door of Bobby's at dawn to finish several projects at the new house. Bobby wasn't in any rush for them to leave, but John felt the sooner they were living under their own roof the sooner they could get on with their lives. Mary had made her peace with the idea that Dean would likely make himself a regular visitor at the salvage yard. She had Bobby's promise he would not let the boy know about his side business of putting down monsters and ghosts or helping other hunters to do so.

"Hello?" Mary called as she made her way toward the kitchen—the main project as John had been upgrading the plumbing.

"In here," he called from that room.

Mary crossed the threshold and was impressed by the changes a little paint and a few repairs could make. John was crawling out from under the sink and wiping the pipe grease from his hands. He tested the faucet and raised his hands in victory as he flipped a switch on the wall and a soft grinding noise filled the air.

"Congratulations, Mary Winchester," he said proudly. "You are the proud owner of a working garbage disposal. Where are the boys?"

"Sam's in the garden," she said pointing out the window where both could be seen in the back. "Dean is in prison."

John shook his head and chuckled. Sam was showing his brother, in a very animated fashion, the progress of his plants. Dean looked on with a puzzled but engaged expression nodding as he listened to the little boy talk.

"They packed for the big move?" John asked.

Packing was a bit of a joke. They owned about a bag of stuff each and could both pack and move in about 15 minutes time. Less, John suspected, if Dean chose to pack his bag without bitching or complaining about 'phantom spleen pain'—a new ailment he had invented earlier in the week to get out of doing anything that resembled work or anything else that he wanted to avoid.

"I think so, but before we move in, Sam wants to know some history about the place," Mary announced. "Oh, and Dean thinks he should be excused from enrolling in school next month."

"Okay, Sam I get," John nodded. "New home, old building, that's simple curiosity. What's Dean's gripe about school have to do with the house?"

John paused, patiently awaiting what was sure to be a convoluted and spectacularly creative excuse devised by his oldest. The teenager's guile seemed to know no bounds.

"I'm not sure I follow his logic either, but according to Dean, the important thing is that he does," Mary smirked. "He also let me know on the way over here that after much consideration, he feels that he should get special consideration when he does go to school. I believe his exact words were 'expecting me to get up at the same time as a _spleen-a-fied_ person is unfair.' Then there was a bit of a rant about discrimination or oppression. I was complimented on my skills as a prison guard, and then I think he was about to break into a verse of 'let my people go' so I made Sam drag him out back to see how the garden is coming along."

"Wait, _spleen-a-fied_?" John repeated then pinched the space between his eyebrows. "He's inventing words now?"

"Brace yourself, Johnny," Mary nodded and squeezed his arm. "You should have expected this with the whole syndrome/debilitating condition that he's cooking up."

John groaned then rubbed the knot that quickly formed in his neck.

"I thought the loss of his spleen was something '_deeply personal'_ that he didn't want to discuss because he was grieving and _needed_ a new mountain bike to recover properly," John remarked. "That's the speech I got the other day anyway."

"Oh, that's still out there, too," she agreed and nodded vigorously. "He also claims to have done some research—without going to a library or opening at a single book mind you—and feels he is an expert in the lingering effects experienced by the '_traumatically de-spleened_.'"

John mouthed the words '_de-spleened'_ and '_expert._' He raked his hand through his hair as he nodded and sighed wearily.

His patience level with his oldest had grown immensely; part of the boy's charm, John learned, were his over the top ideas and antics. The difficult thing for John was figuring out where to draw the line with Dean on his nonstop attempts to cajole, coax, and talk his way into or out of everything from follow up doctor appointments to making his bed. John and Mary were in agreement (as was Bobby) that Dean's goal was still to push their buttons, but phase two of this parental boot camp the teen was running was more to figure out how much he could get away with before there were consequences. Setting his bookends, Bobby called it (often while grinning either his approval at the boy's cheek or at John and Mary's exasperation).

These tactics were easier to swallow than his previous attempts to sabotage their efforts to put their family back together, but it could still be tiring. Dealing with a teenager, they learned, was more exhausting than either recalled a toddler or an infant ever being. It didn't help that the teen often found an ally in his little brother, who seemed to know Dean was full of it most of the time but supported his older brother all the same. Sam seemed to enjoy his brother's ploys as though they were his own private form of entertainment. It certainly did seem sometimes as if Dean was doing half of it just to make Sam smile. Which, given their closeness, might have been partially true. In fact, John suspected the two actually cooked up some of the ideas together. His mind flashed back to all those years ago when his oldest adopted his baby brother as a sidekick. Thoughts of Batman and Robin filled John's mind.

"When are we going to put the spleen to rest?" John wondered as he sighed wearily.

He did not belittle his son's injury or recovery, but there was no reason to grieve the organ like it was a beloved family member. Not that he or Mary could get Dean to agree.

"Not soon enough," Mary consoled as she continued to convey her oldest son's latest philosophy with the proper level of melodrama in her tone. "Dean claims the spleen is sort of a super organ that gives those of us with one an edge, like having special powers. Now that he doesn't have one, he believes he should be afforded certain privileges due to his 'handicap' and should get to use some special rules to help level this unfair playing field."

She nodded with a forced and exasperated grin to show John she shared her husband's frustrated feelings, but they were agreed they would outlast their determined teenager on this one.

"Okay, but has he explained yet how not having a spleen prevents him from eating green beans?" John wondered, citing one of the kid's recent objections.

"I asked that last night," Mary offered, her flat and phony smile continuing. "The response was, '_If you have to ask, obviously you'll never understand, Mom._' So, tag, you're it. He's yours for the rest of the day, Daddy. Good luck."

John groaned at the thought, not because he did not want to spend time with his son, but because it was going to be one of those afternoons. For being a kid who barely spoke 10 words when they first met him again, Dean was proving to be a very loud young man. He liked to play the radio loud; he sang along with it equally loud; he would shout over the volume to talk with you rather than turn it down to a reasonable level. Typical teenage behavior it seemed, but still a huge adjustment for two people who had led quiet and lonely lives until a month earlier.

John shook his head. In general, Dean's madcap days were oddly difficult for John because as a parent he needed to keep order and control with the boy; as a person who happened to think the kid was sometimes nearly as funny as Dean thought he was, it was tricky to maintain a mantel of authority. John also now fully understood what all Dean's past teachers meant when they reported that he was capable and creative but did not apply himself appropriately. It was, John realized, going to be a long school year.

"So these special rules, he's going to write them himself no doubt," John ventured. Mary nodded. John paused and shook his head. "Wait. Isn't this the same argument he gave us the Easter before Sam was born, when he knocked out that baby tooth after he fell on the steps?"

Mary cocked her head to the side and strained her memory. She pressed a hand to her mouth as she began to laugh as the incident in question came back to her.

"That's right," she chuckled. "He should be able to eat more Easter candy…"

"Because having less teeth meant he would eat slower," John finished then groaned. "I don't care what career he chooses, but dodges like this make he think he'll become a lawyer."

"Too many rules for him to follow," Mary shook her head. "I'm worried about him being a politician. Anything goes with them. Of course, if you ask him, as I foolishly did this morning, he'll tell you he wants to take over the Playboy Mansion. Frankly, that worries me, too, so have a talk with him about women not being objects please."

Both looked at each other with stern expressions that quickly crumbled into a round of chuckles. As John looked at her, he noted that so much of the hardness in her eyes had faded. She smiled again and appeared much younger than she had in years. John, too, felt more at ease. While he could never forget the years they lost and the pain he felt during them, he did not feel guilty or any sense of apprehension with simply enjoying what they had now. They were a family again. Granted, things were still a little unsettled between he and Mary.

They had been living under the same roof at Bobby's since early June. They now were moving into their new home. There were just three bedrooms in it, and while John did offer to remain on the couch, Mary said there was no need. Precisely what sharing the same sleeping quarters meant, he did not know.

Unfortunately, Sam overheard that discussion and did what he still did so often: Ran to Dean about it.

Dean, feeling even more comfortable in his blossoming relationship with his parents, made it a point to let John and Mary know that he had no issue with their proposed sleeping arrangements. However, he wanted them to keep in a few things in mind: The house was small; the walls were thin; he liked quiet when he slept; Sam was used to being the baby of the family; and Dean had no interest in another little brother or a little sister. If they could keep from reproducing again, he did not have any issue with them having whatever level of physical contact they desired.

That cheeky comment earned the boy a several week long grounding, but what could you do to a kid who was already on orders for bed rest and couldn't be given any strenuous chores because of it?

Mary found something: She ordered him to read.

She went to the library and pulled several classics she wanted him to finish before the end of the summer. He grumbled and bitched anytime he was reminded of the assignment, but Sam told John in confidence that Dean had already finished two of the three books and was simply going slow thru the third (Moby Dick) because he kind of liked it but would never admit it.

As John mused about the obtuse evolution of the relationship between he and Mary and their sons (and the boys with each other), he felt certain they had come light-years since Dean's stint in the hospital. The boys were as close as ever, but there was less of a resistance to anyone else infringing on their world. Sam was able to leave Dean's eyesight without there being a meltdown from either boy. Dean had begun asking to accompany Mary on her trips into town. At first, John thought it was sweet that Dean wanted to spend more time with her. Mary dashed that theory when she found out there was a pretty girl about their son's age who hung out at a coffee shop on Main Street during the day.

"You ready for this?" John asked her. "I mean settling in here? I know that whatever Bobby's been looking into about… how all this happened is on your mind."

"It's a case, John," she admitted. "What happened to our sons is definitely a case, but the facts of it, the center of it, seems to be the boys. So wherever they are is where I need to be. So far, Bobby hasn't turned up anything demonic in what we know. Even those sigils in Dean's ribs…"

"Sam's too," John reminded her.

They had Sam x-rayed as well—a fun night escapade with Bobby and a radiology tech with a half-truth to Sam that they needed the picture to help understand Dean's special marks. Dean was oddly quiet about the whole thing. He grew withdrawn whenever discussion of their disappearance came up. Both John and Mary wondered if his memory was churning up things long forgotten, but so far he wasn't saying. Both parents felt it best to let that go for now.

"Bobby thinks the symbols might be in a language called Enochian," she revealed. "There's nearly no information on them except in some ancient Hebrew texts. They seem to be associated with protection from demons and pretty much anything magical or supernatural. That explains why we could never find the boys with spells or scrying. I'm not ready to let this drop, but it's as if someone did this to protect them."

John opened his mouth to object. How leaving them a thousand miles from their home and possibly wiping out Dean's memory of his last name, address and phone number was protecting the boys he could not understand. He was prepared to state this when there was an unexpected knock on the door.

"Well, hidey-ho, neighbors," the voice of Mr. Smith, the home's current owner, called as he entered. He made his way down the hall to the kitchen. "Say, the old place is looking good. Careful now, fix it up too much and I'll think I'm not charging you enough."

Smith laughed at his own joke confidently as John bit his tongue. He had a visceral reaction to the short, blond man whenever they met. There was an odd, radiating arrogance around him. He wasn't the only one who felt it. John suspected Dean wasn't all that keen on the guy either. John had noticed the way his son stared at the man and fell suspiciously silent around him. When John questioned his son about it, Dean merely shrugged and said the guy just '_seemed like a dick_.' While John was inclined to agree, he did scold Dean for phrasing his opinion in that way.

Mary, however, took no issue with the man. Bobby vouched for him, having known him for years as a neighboring property owner. The man was gone much of the time and not at all nosy about any of the odd things that might be occurring at the salvage yard. That was enough to make John a little leery, but Bobby swore he had checked the man out completely. The guy was a little smug but otherwise harmless.

"We already have deal," Mary reminded him with a smile, a flirty type of grin that Smith always responded to, John noted. He silently thanked his wife for her vastly more advanced people skills.

"The weather looks clear for the rest of the week so we're gonna get a new coat of paint on it next," John offered, joining the conversation.

"That's a lot of work," Smith remarked with a chuckle. "Which is something I try to avoid."

His loud laugh grated on John, but he again kept his cool. The guy was doing them a huge favor letting them rent the place at a reasonable price and giving them the option to buy if they could turn their finances around enough to secure a loan. John had just landed a job at a garage in town. Mary was hired part-time at a private library in town, which came with the benefit of getting Sam into all of their enrichment programs for free. It was a small perk, but it would keep Sam under watchful eyes after school and leave Dean free to behave more like a normal high school freshman (something both John and Mary were dreading on some level) rather than a caretaker for his little brother.

"The boys are going to help with the painting," Mary added. "Well, that's the plan anyway. Our youngest is excited and thinks it sounds fun."

"What about your other boy?" Smith asked knowingly.

"He's convinced he's being used as slave labor," John offered. "And he's right. Not that he'll be doing much still."

"Right, he's still getting back on his feet, isn't he," Smith chuckled. "That's good to hear. Bobby was worried about him. Well, I don't want to hold you up any, and I need to get going. I was just stopping by to see how you were getting on. I am heading out of town again, but if you run into any trouble with the old place, just give that number I gave you a call. I'll be here in a flash."

He chuckled and winked. Mary smiled but John gave him an odd and painful expression that was his best attempt at a smile.

"Oh, one more thing before you go," Mary stopped him. "My son, Sam, had a question. Back when this was an operating church, what was it called? What was the name of the parish?"

"Sam, huh, well that figures," Smith paused and nodded. "It was called St. Gabriel's."

"Gabriel?" John repeated and cast his eyes at his wife.

"Yes," Smith continued with a wide, almost smarmy or self-satisfied grin. "Fascinating character, Gabriel—handsome, too. If you believe in that kind of stuff, anyway. The books are a little vague on whether the Gabe'ster is an archangel or not, but considering his acts, it seems pretty clear to most scholars that he is. Nice gig, Messenger of God, huh? Makes sense the Big Guy wouldn't send some slouch to deliver His word, right? He'd send the one archangel who seemed to like mankind the most. In the texts, Gabriel doesn't show the righteousness of other angels and asks only to never be prayed to because he is but an angel and servant of the Lord. Now, Lucifer, he spoiled the soup for everyone. And, of course, Michael and Raphael get better billing—prima donnas, if you ask me. Any who, that's the skinny on the old namesake here."

**oOoOoOo**

Crickets hummed in the meadow and swallows and finches swooped through the air. Sam pointed excitedly toward a shrub swearing he saw humming birds in it. Dean swore they were mosquitoes on steroids. They started their argument as they crossed the yard then stopped as Dean paused, seeing their landlord stepping out of the house.

"Oh crap," Dean groaned as he saw the short man exiting the house. "Dickhead alert."

Sam nudged his brother forward and begged him with his eyes to be nice and behave.

"Well, if it isn't the gruesome twosome," Smith crowed. "Bonnie and Clyde, Frick and Frack, Heckle and Jeckle, Wang and Chung.…"

"Oh my god is he still talking," Dean muttered under his breath and winced slightly as Sam stomped hard on his toe. He then spoke more loudly. "Hi."

"So, settling in boys?" Smith asked. "Sounds like you've got a busy schedule for the rest of your vacation."

"Yeah," Dean scoffed. "Chain gang summer camp with Attila the Marine. Awesome."

"Trust me kid, life could be worse for you—way worse," Smith assured him with a firm nod emphasizing his words. "You got it pretty good here. Not a bad spot, neighbors are pretty nice, and you got your family. Never underestimate that. Your mom and dad aren't so bad. Me, I grew up without a mom and talk about a demanding father. Wow. My brothers and I had to be perfect—no room for mistakes. Dad wasn't what you'd call big on praise or affection for his sons, but I learned something after years of being frustrated and angry about all the orders and the family politics: He had reasons and was right about a lot of stuff. Now, I'm not saying that's always the case, but you might what to keep that in mind. Well boys, hate to break your hearts, but I gotta go."

Sam and Dean nodded politely and turned back toward the house. Sam quickly returned to his claim that they had a horde of humming birds and wondered if they could catch one so he could keep it as a pet.

"We don't need a pet, Sammy," Dean chided, ruffling his hair. "We've got you."

Sam stepped away, reminding himself he couldn't shove Dean yet (even thought he deserved it). Instead, he turned again to look at his humming bird enclave then looked curiously around the yard. It was empty.

"Hey, Dean," Sam called, making his brother turn around. "Where did Mr. Smith go?"

"Washington?" Dean quipped but his brother offered him a blank expression. "It's a movie, Sam. I was making a joke. Never mind."

He turned and looked down the driveway toward the road then across the meadow that led to the stream that ran between the salvage yard and the old church property. No car was visible, and no one was on foot in either direction.

"I don't know," he shrugged unconcerned as he draped an arm over his brother's shoulders. "Maybe he fell in a ditch. Forget about him. Come on. We got work to do."

Sam scrunched up his face and swept the area with his eyes one last time. Then shook his head as he turned his attention back to his brother and the plan they discussed in the garden.

"You really think Mom and Dad will let us camp in the backyard?" Sam asked bouncing eagerly beside his brother.

"Sure," Dean nodded.

"You sure your lack of a spleen won't make you incapable or too weak to sleep on the ground?" Sam teased. "If you keep complaining today, Mom said she would send you back to the hospital."

"Not a chance," Dean shook his head confidently as they approached the front door. "Just stick to the plan. We're just gonna annoy them enough that they want us out of the house but not so much that they get pissed and ground us. It'll work. Trust me, Sammy."

Sam laughed as he trotted up the stairs. Dean was getting good at figuring out what their parents would let them do without making them mad. Sam figured some of it was the adults getting used to being around kids again; some of it was due to Dean letting them act like parents without grumbling too much. Sam knew another part of that was also because Dean was still getting better from his operation. Sam didn't know how much longer his brother could milk his 'lost spleen' campaign (as Dean referred to it), but Sam was enjoying it while it lasted and wondered what Dean would use next on their parents once he was fully healed.

"You said you wanted to go camping, so we're going camping," Dean continued. "Just don't crawl in my sleeping bag if you get scared by a moth. After all, you're the one with the spleen to fight it off, not me."

In the front yard, invisible to the Winchesters, stood the image of "Mr. Smith", his wings invisible but the aura of his grace making even the grass stand up straighter and appear more vibrant. The Archangel Gabriel smiled and looked skyward.

"I know you're not mad at me," Gabriel said penitently yet confidently. "You could have swatted me down long ago to stop me, but You haven't. You knew I took them and that I hid those boys and why. You never once let Michael or his minions find them—same goes for any of Luci's pets. I ran away from home long ago, but when I did, I came here because I had listened to You. I walked among them and saw the potential in these creatures. I saw what You love about them—that thing that makes them better than us: their ability to choose and to try again after they make mistakes. But I also saw what could have happened to that family and so many other families. You created this place so their kind could flourish, so they could love and hate and live and die because of their own choices. Well, that family's destiny was never going to give them any real choice and that is contrary to Your will, to Your orders for all of my brothers. This was test for us. My brothers failed. I didn't. I just did what You ordered us to do, worship mankind. Because I did, I knew this family shouldn't have to pay the price just because our family needs a session with a shrink. Smite me now if I was wrong." He paused as tree frogs sang in the distance and butterflies floated on the air, then he grinned. "Thought so."

The long meadow grass was suddenly ruffled by a sudden warm breeze, and the Archangel Gabriel disappeared in the wind.

**oOoOoOo**

* * *

A/N: Due to the interest of so many readers, there will be two (or possibly three) sequels to 'In The Wind.' Be looking for it/them later this year. The next installment will be called **"IN THE WOODS****" **Favorite/follow me as an author for notification when the sequels are published.

UPDATED NOTES: THE SEQUEL ("IN THE WOODS") IS IN PROGRESS-HALF WRITTEN, ACTUALLY. I WILL POST IT AS SOON AS IT IS COMPLETE SO READERS DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT FOR CHAPTER UPDATES. GIVE ME A FEW MORE WEEKS. ;) THANKS.


End file.
